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THE ^ 

DOWAGER COUNTESS 

# AND THE 

AMERICAN GIRL 


BY 


LILIAN BELL 


AUTHOR OF “sir JOHN AND THE AMERICAN GIRL*^ 
“ THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF AN OLD MAID ” 


THE EXPATRIATES^^ ETC, 





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NEW YORK AND LONDON 
HARPER (5r BROTHERS 
PUBLISHERS ^ MCMIII 


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THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Received 

JUN 19 1903 

Copyright Entry 

Kj[cZ 

CLASS XXo. No. 
COPY A. 


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Copyright, 1903, by Harper & Brothers. 


All rights reserved. 
Published June, 1903. 


TO 

MY FRIEND 

ALFRED ELY, ESQ. 

WHO WAS THE FIRST TO SUGGEST 
THIS SEQUEL TO 

SIR JOHN AND THE AMERICAN GIRL” 





THE DOWAGER COUNTESS AND 
THE AMERICAN GIRL 












THE DOWAGER COUNTESS AND 
THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Chapter I 



HEN he saw from her letters that the 


Y Y Dowager Countess of May hew was de- 
termined to be nasty about her son Archi- 
bald’s marriage to the American girl, and Sir 
John Chartersea realized that by seeing them 
safely married in Rome, after their some- 
what stormy courtship in Cairo, he had large- 
ly taken things into his own hands, he natu- 
rally felt his responsibility in the affair. He 
felt it the more because he knew the dowager 
of old, and next to his own wife. Lady Char- 
tersea, the dowager was considered to be the 
most terrible old woman in the county. 

It had been much against his will (for 
Sir John was of a sanguine temperament, in 


I 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


spite of experience which should have taught 
him better) that he was at last convinced 
that the dowager had taken no account of 
his wedding present of five thousand pounds 
to dower the portionless bride, and that she 
was planning at sight to be even nastier to 
her American daughter-in-law than she had 
been in her letters. 

But Sir John was a man who, having put 
his hand to the plough, never turned back. 
Besides this characteristic, he was an Eng- 
lishman, and the English are a race which, 
while perhaps not exactly stubborn, are, at 
least, firm. Therefore Lady Chartersea, hav- 
ing been reduced almost to a pulp by the 
extravagance of such a wedding present, 
was further anguished to discover that Sir 
John had, during the honey-moon, quietly 
and unostentatiously established himself the 
bride’s champion, defender, and haven of 
refuge whenever the dowager’s letters grew 
too unbearable. Such conduct on Sir John’s 
part portended future vexation to the none- 
too-amiable Lady Chartersea when they got 
back to England. 


2 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Sir John possessed, in spite of his worldly 
wisdom and keen old tongue, the kindest of 
hearts. He was, in addition, the embodi- 
ment of old English chivalry — that chivalry 
which, although filtered down through gen- 
erations of mixed blood, is the proudest heri- 
tage of the American man of to-day and the 
gift of the gods American women have most 
cause to be grateful for. 

The dowager countess was proud — proud 
and poor, a combination which always 
creates trouble wherever it is found. And 
as an explanation for the unpleasantness 
of her letters to her young and sensitive 
daughter-in-law, recently orphaned and a 
stranger in a strange land, it can only be as- 
serted as a fact open to dispute that most 
women are cats at heart, but few, fortu- 
nately, feel at liberty to allow their cattish- 
ness full play. Those few are women whose 
social position is so hopelessly low that they 
feel free to gibe at those above them, and 
those whose position is sufficiently high and 
assured not to care what anybody thinks of 
them. 


3 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


To this latter class the dowager countess 
belonged. 

Nor was it the most auspicious hour for 
Edith Joyce to have married a younger son, 
for the situation, always strained, was just 
now undergoing a particular tension, as the 
result of the curious will left by the late 
earl, Archie’s father. 

His elder brother, Geoffrey, the present 
Earl of Mayhew, had never been a favorite 
with their father, and his extravagance had 
so reduced the old earl’s income that he took 
a dying revenge against his son, and left all 
his personal property in trust for the first 
male heir of the Earl and Countess of May- 
hew, leaving as little ready money as he 
could both to his wife, the dowager countess, 
and to his elder son. Only the entailed 
property, that which he could not possibly 
control, went to Geoffrey. To his second 
son, Archie, he left three thousand a year. 

This will seemed bad enough when it was 
read, but hope was strong that the heir 
would soon make his appearance and clear 
the atmosphere as well as the estate; but 
4 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


just a week before the news of Archie’s mar- 
riage to his American bride was wired from 
Rome, Tessie had presented her liege lord 
and her august mother-in-law with twin 
girls, which made six, if you please, in seven 
years. 

Certainly, under the circumstances (one 
pair of twins and four odd ones), one would 
think poor Tessie not to blame, she having, 
according to an Americanism of Sir John’s, 
“put in her best licks.” But the dowager 
thought differently, and she therefore made 
a journey to Sudleigh, their place in Sussex, 
purposely to see Tessie and tell her what 
she thought of her, which she did with such 
a freedom and directness of speech that poor 
Tessie went into convulsions and nearly lost 
her life. 

As for the dowager, the interview had ben- 
efited her. It had relieved a certain nervous 
tension, and she declared she felt better for 
her visit. She knitted her way back to 
Mintem Court, firm in the resolution not to 
pin her faith to that ungrateful Tessie any 
longer, but to arrange a wealthy match for 
5 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Archie. She was strengthened in this re- 
solve by her own observations of Mayhew’s 
increasing flesh and his apoplectic appear- 
ance. Her husband, the late earl, had died 
of apoplexy, as well as his younger brother. 
Mayhew was sadly like both of them. It 
was just as well to be prepared for an emer- 
gency, the dowager reflected, and get Archie 
safely married to money. 

The following week, a joyous wire from 
Sir John announced Archie’s marriage in 
Rome to “the American girl” the dowager 
had so dreaded in Cairo. 

With that, the dowager went into such a 
purple rage that her own seven daughters, 
whose numbers should have made her gentle 
to poor Tessie’s exaggerations in that line, 
found it expedient to keep out of their 
mother’s way. As for the dowager, she fell 
upon Tessie again. This was probably be- 
cause she could not get at the bride. But 
the bride was coming, never fear! They 
were in London even now, and each hour 
was bringing her nearer and nearer to the 
welcome awaiting her at Mintern Court, 
6 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


where they were to stay until their own 
house could be prepared to receive them. 

Edith had never been in England. Her 
invalid mother had died in the South a year 
previous, and she had gone North to live 
with her uncle upon an income which sup- 
ported her in more than comfort. But 
Edith was a keen-witted, eager, sensitive 
young girl, with an unusual power of obser- 
vation and a glorious sense of humor, which 
very often got her into trouble with the dull. 
She was not particularly happy in her uncle’s 
family, so she hailed with delight the pros- 
pect of travel in company with the redoubt- 
able Mrs. Richards, a not more unfortunate 
choice than most travelling companions 
prove, and straightway the two set off for a 
tour of the Mediterranean, when in Cairo 
she met and fell in love with Archie Caven- 
dish. 

She possessed an illuminating imagination 
of the rare sort which could project itself 
into another’s personality and obtain his 
point of view. It made her eminently lov- 
able to the clever and broad-minded, but it 
7 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


unfortunately added to her unhappy repu- 
tation for cleverness and antagonized the 
stupid. 

It endeared her to Sir John. He, in fact, 
adored her, and openly declared and paraded 
the fact, to his wife’s chagrin, but to every- 
body else’s amusement, for Lady Chartersea 
was neither lovable nor popular. She and 
the dowager countess were life-long friends, 
if so bloodless and pale a companionship may 
be dignified by that virile name. 

Neither Sir John nor the earl had been 
happy in their marriages, although Sir John 
was much the finer and nobler man of the 
two. Sir John, for example, would have 
been incapable of the post-mortem cruelty 
of the earl’s will. His nature was larger, 
grander, more generous, and more forgiving. 
But they had always been devoted friends, 
drawn together, not only from their adjoin- 
ing estates, but the similarity of their wives. 
These wives differed, however, in this, that 
whereas Lady Chartersea was devoted to Sir 
John, and pampered him as only an English- 
woman can pamper and slave for a man, the 
8 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


dowager countess had early seen the futility 
of such a course with her sterner husband, 
and had ordained her life separately, with 
little regard to his pleasure and comfort, ex- 
cept for a fervent respect in words, as be- 
came an English wife and mother. 

But, always a despot to women and servile 
to men, the dowager developed, after her 
husband’s death, into something of a bully. 
She possessed a certain amount of tact, but 
her appearance was formidable, and she had 
acquired that unaccountable ascendency 
over the lives of her women relatives which 
one sometimes observes without apparent 
cause except, perhaps, long precedence and 
the wholesome fear of a family quarrel. 

In this manner, wholly against tradition, 
the dowager had managed to obtain M intern 
Court for a residence, instead of retiring to 
Dower House, the smaller estate provided 
for dowager countesses of Mayhew. She 
had come with her seven daughters to visit 
Tessie at Mintern while Tessie was a bride. 
Tessie, being dowerless, although the daugh- 
ter of Sir William Vargrave, and with no end 
9 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


of fashionable relations, the dowager had 
terrorized her thoroughly and completely. 
In addition, measles broke out among the 
seven daughters, and Tessie, always timid, 
fled with her husband, leaving the dowager 
in possession. The measles progressed slow- 
ly through the seven, and were followed by 
lingering disorders which would have made 
the removal of the Mayhews a cruelty. 
Therefore they stayed on. When they were 
completely recovered, the dowager invited 
Tessie down for a visit, but, instead of tak- 
ing a bold stand, then and there, and assert- 
ing herself once for all, Tessie weakly acqui- 
esced, and found herself a guest in one of her 
own houses, assigned to a suite of guest- 
chambers, while the dowager and her girls 
were discovered ensconced in the family 
rooms. 

This was a coup d'etat for the dowager. 
She was trembling in her shoes for fear Tessie 
would assert herself, but when she found 
how Tessie took it, instead of gratitude for 
her daughter-in-law’s amiability, the dowa- 
ger frankly despised her for her want of spirit, 

lO 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


and immediately took steps to put her fur- 
ther into subjection. 

Thus it was that Edith paid her respects 
to her husband’s mother at Mintern Court 
instead of Dower House. 


Chapter II 


O N the afternoon of the arrival of the 
bride and groom, after dawdling away 
their honey -moon in Italy, the month of 
May showed the arrival of the lovely Eng- 
lish spring. 

Mintern Court was an historic but forbid- 
ding pile of gray stone, with turrets and 
towers and cold floors and winding passages 
calculated to set fire to an enthusiastic 
American’s blood. 

Like many another American woman, 
Edith had always thirsted for ancestors. 
As her eyes travelled eagerly over stately, 
ivy-covered Mintern, her heart throbbed 
with pride to realize that now she, too, be- 
longed to English history — she had a place 
in tradition — she had attained to that proud- 
est of proud positions, an earl’s daughter. 
And because her disposition was sweet, be- 


12 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


cause she loved her husband very tenderly 
and deeply, she determined not to allow her- 
self to be prejudiced against her new mother 
— the only mother she could claim — for all 
she had written so insultingly not only to 
Archie and herself, but, most humiliating of 
all, to the Charterseas. 

At first she had shrunk from going to 
Mintern, and had begged to stay in London, 
where they were being handsomely enter- 
tained, until Fernleigh could be made ready 
for them, but Sir John and Archie, and even 
Robert Gordon, Lady Chartersea’s brother, 
had fiouted the idea, and urged her to “ buck 
up " and show the dowager her spirit. 

Thus encouraged, Edith had “bucked up,” 
and was even now being ushered into the 
library of Mintern by the old butler, whose 
expression, as he welcomed her husband, 
was sufficient for Edith’s susceptible nature. 
Metaphorically speaking, she then and there 
took Jepson to her heart. 

There was no one in the library, although 
it was time for tea. The room was damp 
and chilly, albeit a fire was vainly endeavor- 

13 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


ing to make itself felt. Archie looked around 
anxiously. 

“Let Lady Mayhew know we are come, 
Jepson,” he said. 

The butler looked up. 

“ I thought you knew, sir,” he said, apolo- 
getically. “Lady Mayhew is from home. 
She left Mintern this morning, sir.” 

“From home!” exclaimed Archie, invol- 
untarily. Then he recollected himself. “I 
had not heard. Where is she, Jepson?” 

“She didn’t say, sir. She said to say, 
when you arrived, that she was from home. 
She said you would understand.” 

Archie’s face colored slowly. His blue 
eyes grew dangerously black. 

“Are my sisters here?” he asked, sharply. 

“Yes, sir, but — ” 

“Desire them to come down immediate- 
ly,” said Archie, quietly, but with a note 
in his voice which Edith never heard be- 
fore. 

Jepson bowed and left the room. 

Cavendish thrust his hands deep into his 
pockets and crossed the room to his wife. 

14 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


But Edith, after one look into his face, ex- 
claimed, eagerly: 

“Oh, Archie, what a beautiful old room! 
I never dreamed it would be so lovely as this. 
What millions of books, and how well used 
the place looks. Oh, if you could see some 
of the American libraries I know!" 

Her husband stared at her. Hadn’t she 
heard Jepson? Didn’t she understand that 
his mother was deliberately insulting them? 
Or wasn’t she sensitive? He bent to look 
into her face. She was white around the 
nostrils, and her eyes were bright as with a 
fever. Her cheeks and lips burned scarlet. 

Then the man knew and worshipped her. 

“Tell me,’’ she went on, a little breath- 
lessly, “was your father proud of all this? 
Did he live much of his life here ? It seems 
to me as if he must have. It associates it- 
self at once with the way I think of him.’’ 

“How clever — no, how sympathetic — 
you are, dearest! Yes, this was his favorite 
room. He greatly added to the collection of 
books, and all these early prints, most rare 
they are, were his. He and Sir John have 

15 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


spent years of their lives within these four 
walls.” 

“Sir John!” cried Edith. “ I was sure of 
it. I can see them! They wrangled, didn’t 
they?” 

“ Fairly fought, sometimes, yet loved each 
other as men sometimes do — through every- 
thing.” 

Jepson entered, with a deprecating cough. 

“ Miss Inch worthy sends her compliments, 
sir, and says that her ladyship left word, as 
the young ladies are not at all well this 
spring, that they are to drink their tea and 
have no excitement, but go quietly to bed. 
The doctor’s orders, I believe, sir.” 

Archie did not stir from Edith’s side, but 
she felt his arm, which was touching hers, 
stiffen. 

“Jepson, my compliments to Miss Inch- 
worthy, and tell her I desire her presence 
and that of the young ladies in the library in 
ten minutes. If the young ladies have re- 
tired, desire them to dress at once and join 
us at tea. Be so good, Jepson, as to send 
tea in immediately. Mrs. Cavendish is 

i6 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


greatly in need of it. You get my message, 
Jepson?” 

“Yes, sir. Perfectly, sir. Miss Inchwor- 
thy shall be informed at once, sir.” 

In less than ten minutes they came — in 
fact, it seemed to Edith that Miss Inch wor- 
thy and her seven charges must have been 
concealed behind the door, so immediately 
did they appear. 

Edith was well-bred, but, I repeat, she had 
never been in England before, therefore her 
breeding was severely strained not to give 
more than a smile of amiability as one, two, 
three, four, five, six, seven tall girls, dressed 
alike, looking alike, walking alike, bowing 
alike, came up to her like going down a flight 
of steps, each ash-colored head a few inches 
shorter than the ash-colored head preceding, 
each pair of pale eyes fluttering with exactly 
the same flutter, each right hand damp with 
the same dampness of all the others. 

It was so deadly, unspeakably funny 
that, as the seven were passing in review 
before Archie, Edith bent over the Are 
to conceal an irrepressible nervous giggle, 
a 17 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


which instantly smothered itself in a polite 
cough. 

Then she straightened up and ventured 
another look at them. 

After a consulting glance at the governess, 
they had ranged themselves in a stiff row. 

Jepson was bringing tea. Edith looked 
around wildly. 

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked. 
“Archie, push some chairs nearer the fire 
for your sisters and Miss Inch worthy.” 

Although Archie turned obediently, eight 
shocked pairs of eyes were fastened upon the 
bride, and Jepson and the footman sprang 
to assist him. 

In great trepidation the girls were finally 
seated. 

Miss Inchworthy whispered to the eldest 
girl, who turned immediately to Edith. 

“Did you have a comfortable journey?” 
she asked. 

The governess nodded approvingly. 

“Oh yes, very,” answered Edith. “I 
have never before seen an English spring. 
It is almost too beautiful.” 

i8 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


No one replied. 

Miss Inchworthy coughed reprovingly. 
The second girl started nervously, and, with 
an apprehensive glance at the cougher, said : 

“I am very glad you had a comfortable 
journey.” 

“Thank you,” said Edith, gently. She 
smiled at the second girl, and the second 
girl, after a timid appeal to Miss Inch worthy, 
smiled in return and colored pink clear up to 
her ash-colored hair. 

“Edith,” said Archie, “will you pour tea, 
or are you too tired?” 

“I am not in the least tired,” said Edith. 

She rose and went to the tea-table, eight 
pairs of eyes following her pretty figure and 
well-poised head with interest. Her black 
gown fitted her slim waist to perfection and 
spread around her feet in lines of grace and 
elegance which the girls had never seen be- 
fore. Her lovely auburn hair was dressed 
as thousands of American girls dress theirs, 
without the slightest dread that an English 
girl could ever copy it, even though she saw 
it done every day. Just a loose puff, just 

19 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


a dexterous twist, just a push forward over 
the forehead by a skilled hand — the fewer 
hair-pins the better — a final touch of a wide 
comb, and there you are, with your hair 
done as no one in all this world can do it, ex- 
cept just the girls who live under the stars 
and stripes. The sleek undulation of the 
French, and the fussy fringe of the English, 
with their eternal invisible nets and inevita- 
ble bun, never can hope to compete with the 
airy grace and the irresistible and unmis- 
takable style of the head of a well-groomed 
American girl. 

In a dim way the seven sisters watching 
Edith felt this. She seemed by her rounded 
slimness to accentuate their awkwardness. 
Her small wrists and narrow feet made their 
thick ankles and stout boots more than ever 
conspicuous. They thought her extremely 
beautiful and her manner very gentle and 
kind as she, by dint of much coaxing, finally 
extracted from them the information that 
they took three lumps of sugar each. They 
thought her simply fascinating when, with a 
little smile, she put a fourth in their saucers. 


20 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


and Inch worthy did not forbid their slipping 
it into their sirupy tea. 

Still their mother’s cautions told. They 
felt that this charm was the charm of evil, 
and this fascination was something to watch 
and pray over as a temptation of the devil. 
The American was like a forbidden French 
novel to them. They would dearly have 
loved to meet her advances and dip into her 
at will, but they were wholesomely afraid of 
the contamination she would be to them. 

Their brother sat looking at them with 
eyes which had been cultivated by two 
months of close companionship with his 
American wife. If he had not known Edith, 
he would have taken them as a matter of 
course, and not noticed them more than 
usual. They were, after all, quite like other 
English girls who were still in the school- 
room. But now he looked at them with 
amazement. Surely Inch worthy was cruel 
to caricature them with such clothes and 
such manners. But, as he looked at the 
governess, he reflected that poor Inchwor- 
thy was incapable of the imagination of a 


21 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


caricature or of comprehending one if she 
saw it. 

The seven ladies were so plainly anguished 
by the situation that their brother released 
them as soon as the tea was over, and Inch- 
worthy piloted them hurriedly back to 
safety. 

But with their disappearance Archie’s 
embarrassment returned. He pulled at his 
mustache, dug his hands into his pockets, 
knocked down the fire-irons, and gave so 
many other signs of perturbation that 
Edith, who was a great believer in taking the 
bull by the horns, finally tucked her hand 
under his arm and said: 

“Never mind, Archie, dear. I know how 
you feel — I know how I should feel in your 
place. Your mother has behaved out- 
rageously in her endeavor to show her dis- 
pleasure, so why not admit it and be done 
with it? I don’t believe in dodging about 
and pretending you don’t see a thing which 
is as fiagrant as this. But don’t allow it to 
spoil your home-coming, for it is home to you 
if it isn’t to me, and, above everything, never 


22 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


let her see that we were annoyed or even sur- 
prised. In the mean time, I am free to ad- 
mit that, apart from her rudeness, I am glad 
not to be obliged to face her until I am rest- 
ed. And oh, Archie, could we look at the 
house to-night — all by ourselves.? I would 
so love to explore it with candles!” 

Her tall husband smiled down at her and 
patted the hand on his arm. 

“Your way is best, dear. I feel so re- 
lieved, now that I see how you are taking it. 
But don’t imagine, because I can’t talk 
about it, that I am not awfully cut up. I’ve 
always known that my mother had her 
faults, but she has her good qualities, too, 
and I have always been able to respect her. 
But her behavior since our marriage has 
lowered her in my esteem more than I like 
to realize, and more than I would have be- 
lieved possible. It is — it is an awful thing, 
Edith, when a parent deliberately does a 
thing which loses her the respect of a child I 
I never realized the — how shall I say it? — 
the obligation which rests upon parents to 
live up to certain conventions or traditions 

23 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


which must compel their children’s respect. 
I swear to you, Edith, I feel most awfully 
cut up — for my mother, you understand — 
on her account. She has lost ground with 
me so immeasurably. She has lost a place 
in my esteem which she can never regain. I 
feel bowled over, by Jove, to discover what 
sort of a woman she is!” 

“Poor Archie,” said Edith. “You take 
away half the sting of her actions by the un- 
mistakable way in which you array yourself 
on my side. I was afraid, from the idea I 
gleaned of you in Egypt, that you would pre- 
fer loyalty to your family to loyalty to any- 
body else on earth — even a wife — ” 

“ Stop a moment, Edith. I try to be just. 
I believe I am just, and, in this case, there 
seems to me to be but one side to take, and 
that is your side. My mother has not a leg 
to stand on. She is wholly in the wrong. 
In Cairo — well, that was different. You 
must see how different it was to this case. 
You know I am no good at expressing my- 
self, but you understand.” 

“Well, don’t dwell on it any more. We 
24 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


understand each other, and we will bear it 
as best we can and—” 

“And we’ll get out at the earliest possible 
moment, won’t we, little woman?” 

“We will, indeed.” 

“Now, there’s the dressing-bell. Come 
along. And after dinner, armed with can- 
dles — ” 

“We’ll explore,” cried Edith, with such 
enthusiasm that Archie’s brow cleared, and 
Edith thought the worst was over, but twen- 
ty minutes later he rapped on her door and 
stood on the threshold in his shirt-sleeves, 
wrestling with his tie, to say, with a threat- 
ening wag of his blond head: 

“Not that I sha’n’t give her a good talk- 
ing to — a regular wigging — on account of 
this, for I shall.” 

Then he closed the door again, and when 
he emerged finally he said no more. 

Theirs was a merry dinner, full of laughter 
and freedom from restraint, and a complete 
satisfaction to Jepson, whose face relaxed 
as he served his young master, until, under 
some, he might have lost his place for smiling. 

25 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


And after dinner they explored indeed, 
Edith making so lovely a picture in her satin 
gown, the exact color of her hair, with the 
amber necklace, bracelets, and stomacher, 
the stones of which Archie had got for her in 
Egypt and had cut and mounted in Paris, 
that when she held her candle above her 
head, the better to examine a tapestry or old 
painting, Archie forgot everything but to 
look at her and admire her and wonder at 
her loveliness, and he was only recalled by 
hot wax spilled on his hand from his own 
candle. 

They had made a hasty tour of the more 
interesting parts of Mintem, and were loiter- 
ing in the picture-gallery, when the sound of 
carriage - wheels and a hurried running to 
the door of the younger footman revealed 
the fact that the dowager countess had re- 
turned. ^ 

Archie and Edith were on the stairs in the 
act of descending to the library again when 
this occurred, and almost immediately the 
hearty and welcome sound of Sir John Char- 
tersea’s voice so amazed them that, without 
26 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


waiting to be summoned, they came on down 
directly. 

The dowager retired to the library without 
a word. 

“Why, whatever in the world — ” began 
Archie, going up to Sir John. 

“Never better, Archie! I assure you, I 
was never better. In fact, I feel like a new 
man. And, Edith, meh girl, you look like 
an etching — a beautiful artist-proof etching, 
signed by the hand of a master!” 

“Dear Sir John,” laughed Edith. 

Archie dismissed the footman at a sign 
from Sir John, and then the old man said, 
in a low tone: 

“I haven’t enjoyed mehself so much in 
years. Archie, meh boy, you’ll forgive me, 
I know, for I can see by your face that the 
blood of your father, the old fighting May- 
hew blood, is up. Listen. I found her at 
Arlesworth. She had come over, if you 
please, to welcome us. Fancy! Leaving 
you and Edith to get on as best you could 
without a welcome, except from the ser- 
vants and the dogs! I saw the whole thing, 
27 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


in a moment, and, without saying a word, I 
ordered the horses put to, and I told her to 
put on her bonnet, and I fetched her home. 
By Jove! I never gave her a chance. I 
fetched her home. Meh wife is furious. But 
I fetched Lady Mayhew home, by the Lord 
Harry! And, Archie, I can see it in your 
eye that you were going to have your say 
out with her. But if you will let your fa- 
ther’s friend advise you — I wouldn’t. The 
fact is, old man, I talked to her a little 
mehself, and I haven’t left anything to 
say!” 

Sir John laughed until he choked, and 
Archie was obliged to thump him on the 
back to bring him to. His keen, old, blue 
eyes twinkled as they rested on his little 
American girl. 

As Archie turned to lead the way into the 
library. Sir John stopped and whispered in 
Edith’s ear: 

“She’s always needed just what she got 
to-night. Poor Mayhew never dared, but 
I’ve avenged him at last. I give you meh 
word, I haven’t enjoyed mehself so much 
28 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


in years. Now, then, go in and speak to 
her. Has Archie told you she was google- 
eyed?” 

Edith was in the open doorway as this last 
whisper reached her. It was too late to re- 
treat, for the dowager had spied her and was 
holding out her hand. She was, indeed, 
“ google-eyed ” — that is to say, her pale, 
bulging eyes seldom seemed to have the 
same intention at the same time, so that, in 
their rolling, they gave a stranger the im- 
pression that she could see behind her. 

Sir John was in such spirits that he was 
plainly delighted by Edith’s confusion, for 
she was trembling visibly in her effort not to 
break into hysterical laughter. The count- 
ess was slightly mollified by her agitation, 
which she set down to Edith’s knowledge of 
her position. 

“You must be tired, mother,’’ said Archie, 
when the first awkward greetings were over. 
“Won’t you have a glass of port and a bis- 
cuit?” 

“I have not even dined,” said the dow- 
ager. 


29 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“No, she wouldn’t stay. Meh wife begged 
her to,” said Sir John, “but after she had 
seen with her own two eyes that Robert and 
Jane hadn’t brought me home a corpse, 
nothing would do but she must hurry right 
home to welcome you two.” 

Edith bit her lip, for behind the dowager’s 
back Sir John was twisting his face into con- 
tortions. 

“Then you must have something imme- 
diately,” said Archie, with the concern an 
Englishman always feels at the tragedy of 
any one’s not having dined. 

“I’ll have a bit of cold toast and a cup of 
hot water in my room presently,” said the 
dowager, bridling with a sense of ill-usage 
under which some women thrive. “I have 
no appetite, as perhaps you will remember. 
You have dined, I suppose?” 

“ Oh, hours ago! And had tea, also, with 
Miss Inch worthy and my sisters.” 

“Inch worthy I Your sisters!” exclaimed 
the dowager. 

“Yes, mother, by my express desire,” said 
her son, meeting the look in her eyes, which 

30 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 

threatened Inch worthy, with one in his own 
which threatened her. 

The dowager hesitated, then retreated in 
good order. 

“Oh, very good,” she said. “I am glad 
Edith was welcomed — suitably.” 

With which graceful remark she took 
leave of them. 

“Sir John,” said Edith, to break the si- 
lence which followed, “you are not thinking 
of returning to Arles worth to-night?” 

“I intended to, Edith, but I find I am not 
up to it, so I’ll beg Archie, here, to give me 
a bed, and I’ll go back to-morrow. If 
you’ll tell Jepson to give the orders to my 
men, Archie, I’ll be obliged to you.” 


Chapter III 


W HO shall describe an American girl’s 
first impressions of the mental de- 
lights and the physical discomforts of life in 
an old English country-house where money 
for improvements has not been forthcoming? 

Edith possessed more than her share of 
enthusiasm, but peacocks on the terrace 
soon failed to compensate her for stone 
floors and cold corridors; and portraits of 
illustrious Mayhew ancestors never made up 
to her for the lack of even one rocking-chair. 
Perhaps they might have done so, if the 
dowager had proved kind, but her manner, 
especially when she was alone with Edith, 
was hard to bear, and while the coldness of 
the Mayhew stones penetrated her foolish 
little American boots and slippers, the cold- 
ness of the Mayhew welcome penetrated 
still further into her foolish little American 


32 


AND THE^AMERICAN GIRL 


heart, so that between them both Edith was 
quite wretched. 

Edith was almost as sorry for Archie’s 
seven sisters as she was for herself, and she 
blushed for them when she heard the dow- 
ager lament to every visitor, and in their 
presence, of the difficulty of marrying them 
off. The prospects of obtaining husbands 
for them was the burning question always 
in the mind and on the tongue of their 
mother, and the poor girls were obliged to 
listen to the discussion as if they were so 
many puppets who had no sensibilities to be 
shocked. 

Silence was no defence for Edith from the 
dowager’s attacks. Her mobile American 
face was too eloquent. Once when the 
Charterseas and Robert Gordon had driven 
over from Arles worth, and they were all, the 
girls and Miss Inchworthy included, having 
their tea together, the dowager turned on 
Edith, saying: 

“And what are your eyes flashing for, 
Edith? Perhaps you don’t approve of the 
conversation?’’ 


3 


33 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“I was not aware that my eyes were 
flashing,” said Edith, quietly. 

“ Now, mother,” put in Archie, pacifically. 

“One moment, Archie, if you please. 
Perhaps Edith will explain why she permits 
her face so palpably to express disapprov- 
al of your mother’s conversation with a 
friend?” 

“ I am sure that I was not aware that my 
face expressed disapproval,” said Edith. 

“Then you decline to answer my question 
— a civil question, civilly put?” asked the 
dowager, fixing at least one eye upon her 
daughter-in-law. 

“ Not at all,” said Edith, with the courage 
of desperation. “Since you are so exi- 
geante, I will say that I was thinking how 
differently we manage things in America.” 

“/w-deed!” said the dowager, bringing her 
other eye into view. Lady Chartersea put 
up her glass. 

“And how, may I ask,” said Lady Char- 
tersea, nobly coming to her friend’s rescue, 
“do they manage marriage for a family of 
seven daughters in America?” 

34 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Edith laughed irresistibly. 

“The true answer to that is quite simple,” 
she said, with a smile which should have 
disarmed spite incarnate. “People seldom 
have a family of seven daughters to provide 
for. I don’t know one — I don’t know of a 
family in all my acquaintance in America— 
with seven daughters.” 

“I,” said Lady Mayhew, “am one of a 
family of ten — all girls. Lady Chart ersea, 
how many daughters had your mother? 
Eight, was it not? Eight! Yes. And 
Tessie has six already.” 

“I know,” said Edith. “I believe such 
large families are quite the rule in Eng- 
land.” 

“However,” pursued the dowager, “you 
have not yet done me the honor to answer 
my question.” 

“Well,” said Edith, “if a woman had so 
many, she would not, I am sure, allow it to 
trouble her much, for the entire seven would 
doubtless manage the whole thing for them- 
selves, and only talk it over with their par- 
ents when everything was settled, or, at 
35 


i 

I 

1 

I 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


least, only waiting for their approval to be- 
come so.” 

“Upon my word!” said Lady Chartersea, 
in tones of the liveliest disapproval. 

“Still,” persisted Lady Mayhew, with an 
evil smile, “permit me still to repeat, with 
what patience I may, my original question, 
which still remains unanswered. Your face 
expressed — ” 

“Since you drive me into what you may 
consider a discourtesy,” said Edith, with a 
glance into Sir John’s beaming face, “I will 
answer you. I was distressed for your 
daughters — for their mortification in having 
their chances of ‘ securing a husband ’ — your 
very words — discussed publicly. I — I never 
have listened to such a conversation before, 
and I — well, I felt for them.” 

It was out at last. Edith glanced at the 
seven ladies to see how they had taken her 
unexpected and most unwarranted champi- 
onship of their delicacy of feeling, but she 
was nonplussed by their expression of un- 
disguised amazement. Plainly this view of 
the subject had never occurred to them be- 
36 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


fore. Not to hear their chances of securing 
husbands discussed? And why not, pray? 

Sir John eased the tension of the moment 
by bursting out laughing. 

“ Such a game of cross purposes!” he cried. 
“Lady May hew, you can no more under- 
stand Edith’s point of view than if you were 
a Hottentot. Why, you should have seen 
her in Cairo, and on the dock of the Austrian 
Lloyd at Brindisi, and at the Grand H6tel in 
Rome. We were never without an odd man 
or two trying to get a word with her. Archie 
nearly had to elope with her, after all. And 
most of the other American girls we saw were 
the same objects of attention. Gad! We 
approved of their taste, Robert and I.” 

“Archie was a lucky dog to have got 
Edith,” drawled Robert Gordon, lazily. “I 
am quite sure she could have had several 
others.” 

Now, every one knows how exasperating 
it is to have some woman, whom we are 
browbeating, championed by men, and par- 
ticularly by men whom we respect and 
whom we have no wish to offend. Every 
37 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


one knows how such championship increases 
our ill-temper against the offensive and of- 
fending woman, and how we inwardly de- 
termine to take it out on her privately, and 
as soon as may be. It was, no doubt, inju- 
dicious for Sir John and Robert Gordon to 
come to Edith’s rescue in that manner. 
Women have been poisoned, murdered, dis- 
figured for life for no more than the crime of 
being unwisely championed by a man. But 
Sir John and Robert Gordon did not think 
of these things, nor their equivalents in civ- 
ilized England and America. They simply, 
as Englishmen, loved fair play, and if you 
had asked them why they interfered, they 
would probably have said it was their cus- 
tom to go to the rescue of the under dog. 

Edith’s one comfort during the first few 
days of her stay at Mintern Court had been 
to drive to Fernleigh to oversee the im- 
provements. Fernleigh was Archie’s own 
property, left him by his father, and lay 
midway between Mintern and Arlesworth. 
It was only a cottage, albeit rather a pre- 
tentious one, but simple, indeed, compared 
38 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


to the estates which had descended through 
entail to Geoffrey and Tessie. 

But to Edith it was a paradise. The girl 
possessed not only an artistic eye and deli- 
cate taste, but she had, what is more rare, a 
genius for home-making. Both Archie and 
Sir John had written these things enthusi- 
astically to the dowager, in their eager at- 
tempts to make her like her new daughter, 
but in their zeal they had only succeeded in 
placing a new weapon in the hands of the 
enemy. 

Let men not read this simple tale, for to 
women alone belongs the gift of being able 
to appreciate how one woman is capable of 
torturing another through small things. Our 
grandmothers in New England made use of 
two words which have grown provincial if 
not obsolete . They are ‘ ‘ hector ’ ’ and “pes- 
ter,” and both aptly describe the process now 
known to the present generation as “tor- 
ment ’ ’ and ‘ ‘ devil. ’ ’ To say that the dowa- 
ger devilled Edith is to make the process 
prominent enough for a man to see and re- 
sent. But to say that she hectored her is 
39 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

to indicate that the process was so sly that 
a slightly stupid and unobservant man (as 
our dear Archie undoubtedly was, in spite of 
being a tender-hearted and just man when 
a wrong was flagrant enough to attract his 
attention) would go quite unobserved by 
him, and would only appeal to a man of the 
wit and penetration of Sir John Chartersea. 

Edith and Archie, full of enthusiasm 
about their future home, had purchased in 
Paris dainty chintzes for the walls of Fern- 
leigh, and, aided by endless plans drawn by 
Archie and hours of description, Edith had 
so excellent a comprehension of the place 
that, even the first time she saw it she found 
it to be quite like the idea she had formed 
of it. 

Much to Lady Chartersea’s annoyance, 
while in Paris, Sir John had often insisted 
upon going shopping with the Cavendishes, 
for, knowing his eagerness to be in their so- 
ciety, the bride and groom had unselfishly 
included him in many of their honey-moon 
plans, and had borne with Lady Chartersea 
in order to give Sir John pleasure. The old 
40 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


man was gratefully convinced of this, and 
while occasionally driven by his own sense 
of the fitness of things into leaving them for 
a week, or allowing them time to escape for a 
few days, at their first suggestion for rejoin- 
ing the two parties. Sir John was so eager to 
accept, and so touchingly appreciative for 
their unselfishness, that they practically kept 
together the entire time, although Sir John 
wrenched himself away to another hotel re- 
ligiously at every stopping-place. 

It was almost easy for Edith to submit to 
this, for the sight of Sir John’s eager old face 
as the young people joined him after each 
little separation was too much for her. She 
had not the heart to leave him, even on her 
honey-moon. 

In this rare exhibition of unselfishness 
she builded better than she knew, as pres- 
ently you shall hear, but in all unconscious- 
ness, albeit Lady Chartersea once called her 
“an artful hussy ’’ in Sir John’s hearing, and 
nearly lost her life in consequence, for Sir 
John’s temper was something quite frightful. 
She never ventured, after that, to allow Sir 

41 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


John to know her opinion of Archie’s Amer^ 
ican wife. 

The first two visits Edith paid to Fern- 
leigh were unproductive of results. Work- 
men, ordered by Lady Mayhew, were in half 
of the rooms, scraping off the old paper and 
generally preparing the house for the new. 

Then Edith was taken ill with a severe 
cold, caught in the draughts and damps of 
Mintern, and, to her surprise and remorse, 
Lady Mayhew was most solicitous. She 
insisted upon Edith’s keeping her bed, and 
she dosed her with such villanous concoc- 
tions that the medicine completed an illness 
which the cold began, so that for two weeks 
Edith was unable to leave the house. 

Archie, in the mean time, had been sum- 
moned to London for several days on busi- 
ness, so that it happened that the dowager 
was the only one upon whom Edith could 
depend for news of Fernleigh. She reported 
a progress slow but sure. 

One bright morning, soon after Archie’s 
return, Edith declared herself well enough 
to drive to Fernleigh. 

42 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


At first she was touched by Lady May- 
hew’s anxious admonitions and scarcely 
veiled determination to alarm Archie into 
keeping her in-doors for another day or two. 
Edith was an unsuspecting creature, and was 
constantly expecting the dowager to tire of 
her petty persecutions and to like her. Edith 
was accustomed *to be liked. She could not 
remember having been actively disliked by 
anybody in the world except Lady Mayhew 
and Lady Chartersea. Of course, numbers 
of her acquaintances were not enthusiastic 
about her, because she was too clever for 
them; but as to hating her, why, nobody 
did ; therefore her mother-in-law’s actions 
were new and disagreeable experiences for 
her. 

It is truly amazing, when one comes to 
think of it, how eager we are to see the good 
points in possible husbands for our daughters 
and how we hate our son’s wives even before 
we see them. We choose our friends at our 
own good pleasure and lavish our precious 
love upon them, but in-laws, like greatness, 
are thrust upon us, and what is more natural 
43 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


than a desire to torment them into early 
graves or lunatic asylums? You may say 
what you please, cover it up, hide it, pre- 
tend that it may be true of others but not of 
you, veneer it in a thin politeness which will 
stand the strain of an afternoon tea, but 
which rubs through in a three weeks’ visit, 
but the truth is that there is very little love 
lost between in-laws of any description. 
Tradition tells us that it has infrequently 
existed, but the parties to it are all dead 
long ago. 

But while Edith had arrived at these 
conclusions, she was somewhat suspicious 
of Lady Mayhew’s attentions, inasmuch as 
they only related to her not going to Fern- 
leigh, and relaxed unaccountably when she 
had gained her point. This time, however, 
Edith, heroically backed by Archie, persist- 
ed in going. 

Instead of the dog-cart, they took the car- 
riage, and piled their chintzes on the oppo- 
site seat in wild but subdued excitement. 
They need not have troubled, however, as 
Lady May hew had retired in dignity to her 
44 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


own apartments and left them to defy her 
advice at their discretion. 

It was a lovely day, as lovely as only Eng- 
land can be when she tries herself. The sun 
shone, the flowers bloomed, the breezes 
blew just as sun and flowers and breezes 
should do to make us happy, and Edith and 
Archie nobly did their part. 

It added greatly to their pleasure, just as 
they drove up to the gate of Fernleigh, to 
recognize Sir John’s travelling-carriage com- 
ing along at a great pace, evidently going to 
Mintern. They waited for him, and, fortu- 
nately finding him alone, they bore him off 
in triumph to give his opinion on the distri- 
bution of the chintzes on the walls of their 
cottage. 

The moment they entered, Edith’s intui- 
tive fears began to be realized. The walls 
were all hung in cheap and gaudy papers in 
such palpable bad taste and such flagrant 
defiance of even the most uncultivated pref- 
erence that all three were struck dumb by 
the horrors of it. No one spoke. They only 
hurried from room to room, hoping to find 
45 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


some with bare walls, but Lady Mayhew ev- 
idently had made good use of her time, for 
every room except those of the servants and 
the offices was papered. 

The papers were not merely ugly, with an 
ugliness that can be lived down. They were 
hideous, with the hideousness of Tottenham 
Court Road — gaudy, aggressive, flaunting, 
not to be borne even by a blind man. Pur- 
ple dragons, impossible human figures, flow- 
ers whose colors set the teeth on edge faced 
one at every turn. Even the stolid British 
workmen grinned as they recognized the new 
occupants. One of them touched his fore- 
lock to Sir John, who remained stricken be- 
fore one of the most glaring. 

“The lady,” he said, jerking his thumb in 
the direction of Edith, “has a lively taste. 
Sir John.” 

Sir John eyed the man from under his 
bushy eyebrows. 

“Saunders, are you foreman here?” 

“Yes, Sir John.” 

“Well, how long will it take to wash all 
these papers off?” 


46 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“To wash them off? They were ordered 
most particular, Sir John. I hope there is 
no mistake, Sir John?” 

“There has been no mistake, Saunders,” 
said Sir John, grimly. “It’s worse than 
that. But Mrs. Cavendish’s taste is differ- 
ent to Lady Mayhew’s. We have down- 
stairs the chintzes we selected in Paris for 
Femleigh. This bill will be sent to Lady 
Mayhew. Make it out to-morrow, includ- 
ing the washing of the walls once — only 
once, mind you — -and make it out to Lady 
Mayhew at Mintern. Now, then, when will 
these walls be ready for the chintzes?” 

Saunders removed his cap and scratched 
his head. It seems to be an impossibility 
for the British workman to think without 
scratching his head. 

“In about a week. Sir John — perhaps a 
day earlier, perhaps later, depending on how 
long the walls take to dry, Sir John.” 

“Begin instantly, then. Let me see you 
begin now. Here, give me that scraper. I 
want to give the first scrape mehself . There 
you are. Now, at it, meh man. A guinea a 
47 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


day to divide between you for every day you 
save from the week you calculate on. Ah, 
that goes better. Call your men and set 
them to work. Saunders, you’re the man 
for meh money.” 

Highly delighted with his success, Sir John 
hurried away to look for Archie and Edith. 
He discovered them in the only room in 
which there were no workmen, and Edith in 
tears. It was the first time Sir John had 
ever seen her cry, and the sight unnerved 
him. 

“She’s a bit knocked up, anyway, from 
her illness,” said Archie, apologetically. 

“Let her cry,” said Sir John, stoutly. 
“ But there, Edith, don’t, there’s a good girl, 
or you’ll have me crying, too. It’s enough 
to make a prime -minister cry. Of all the 
infernal — but I’ve stopped it. Saunders — 
you remember Saunders, Archie? When he 
was laid up last year with a broken leg and 
his wife with twins? Well, Saunders is fore- 
man here, and by the way I left him working 
I shouldn’t wonder if he’d scraped half those 
Chinese dragons off by this time.” 

48 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Oh, but, Sir John, how could she take it 
upon herself to deprive us of the pleasure? 
Even if we hadn’t written that we had se- 
lected our own hangings, I should think she 
would have known!” cried Edith. 

“She did know,” said Sir John, “because 
I wrote her.” 

“So did I,” said Archie. 

Edith walked to the window to hide her 
tears. Sir John followed her, anxiously. 

“What is the use of even trying to please 
her?” she said, in a despairing tone. 

Archie stood tugging at his mustache. 

“I suppose there is no sort of use of our 
trying to stand — this,” he said, with a wave 
of his arm. 

Edith turned on him with a subdued 
shriek. 

“There, old man,” said Sir John, “are you 
answered? If you’re not. I’ll give a few 
screeches mehself. Stand it? Not while I 
am above ground, with a penny in meh 
pocket.” 

“If I thought mother did it to worry 
Edith — ” began Archie; “but, now I think 
49 


4 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


of it, her morning-gown is just those colors, 
purple and yellow, so perhaps this is really 
her fancy/’ 

“Oh, Archie,” cried Edith, almost hys- 
terically, “leave it the way it was! I could 
stand it better to think it was malice than 
to suspect any woman of such taste.” 

“I only thought,” murmured Cavendish, 
“that perhaps we were doing her an injus — ” 

“ Pooh, Archie, don’t be so damned filial,” 
cried Sir John. “You know she did it to 
torment your wife. Don’t you, Edith? 
Well, you needn’t answer if you don’t want 
to. But it’s got to be stopped. We can’t 
have Edith thinking all Englishwomen are 
as — ha! hum! well, I won’t finish that, both 
on Archie’s account and because I’ve a fancy 
that a glass house is over the head of some 
one else I could mention, but won’t. But 
it must be stopped.” 

“But how?” said Cavendish. 

“I’ve done a trifle towards it this morn- 
ing,” said Sir John, slyly. “I’ve ordered the 
bill for all this grace and beauty, and for 
washing off the walls once, to be sent to her 

50 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 

ladyship, and, if she makes a fuss. 111 tell 
her it was presented by my orders. Touch 
her pocket if you want to murder her, 
Edith.” 

“By Jove!” cried Archie, “that’s a good 
idea! I would never have thought of it. 
But, of course, we are not liable. And you 
are quite right. Sir John. That will touch 
her.” 

“She won’t pay it,” said Edith. 

“See if she doesn’t,” retorted Sir John. 

“If Sir John backs us, Edith,” said her 
husband, “I think we may safely leave the 
issue in his hands.” 

“But, pardon me. Has even dear Sir 
John sufficient influence to persuade Lady 
May hew to do anything she doesn’t want 
to?” 

“Edith,” said Sir John, “you are an Amer- 
ican woman; there’s no doubt of it after that 
speech. And you haven’t yet grasped the 
fundamental principle of English rule. If 
you want to control an Englishwoman, you 
must bully her. Never ask, never coax. 
Bully her! And she’ll respect you for it.” 

51 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“It’s the same way with the English na- 
tion, isn’t it?” asked Edith, slyly. 

‘ ‘ I dare say it is, ” laughed Sir J ohn. “We 
never back down until we are obliged to.” 

“Sir John bullies mother, there’s no gain- 
saying it,” said Archie, grimly. “Yet she 
adores him.” 

“I wish I could hear him — just once,” 
said Edith, setting her lips together as she 
looked at the yellow men-of-war riding on 
tempestuous purple waves in the wall-paper. 


Chapter IV 


E dith never heard the details of the in- 
terview which took place between Sir 
John and the dowager when the wall-paper 
bill came, but she knew when it occurred, for, 
if looks could kill, Edith would have fallen 
dead at her mother-in-law’s feet many a 
time. 

As it was, the dowager must have paid the 
bill, for Sir John was greatly given to a sud- 
den fit of chuckling whenever he came to 
Mintern, and to striking his stick on the floor 
and leaning his head forward on the gold 
knob of it, as though he were enjoying some- 
thing particularly rich and rare. 

Then one blooming day, late in June, the 
Cavendishes moved to Femleigh and walked 
with happy hearts among their Paris chintz- 
es, and revelled in the glory of being in their 
own home, with no one to cavil or criticise 
S3 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


unfavorably, or say nasty things or give 
nastier looks — no one, in short, to poison 
their complete and perfect bliss. 

It was with difficulty that Sir John kept 
from moving in with them. He stayed to 
tea, and was only prevented from remaining 
to dine by saying to himself: “ It will not do. 
No, certainly not. It would not be the 
thing at all. I must go home alone. Be- 
sides, Lady Chart ersea will expect me, and 
I must not disappoint her. It will not do, 
I say.” And by repeating these words at 
frequent intervals, he finally got himself into 
his carriage and started homeward, although 
it was an almost irresistible temptation not 
to pretend he had left something and turn 
back for it. 

As for Edith, the days were one long glory, 
for she had a secret in her heart, dear to any 
woman, too precious as yet to be told to any 
huriian soul, even her own husband, and 
particularly dear to her in her new environ- 
ments, where she needed every possible en- 
couragement to enable her to endure her 
new position. 


54 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


One afternoon, she was just establishing 
herself for a quiet hour with a box of new 
books when a babel of voices made her start. 
Before she could rise the door was flung 
open and the four eldest of Archie’s seven 
sisters precipitated themselves into the 
room. They were flushed as if from running, 
their boots were muddy, and wisps of their 
colorless hair hung over their damp fore- 
heads. 

“Edith,” said the eldest, Alicia, “we’ve 
run away!” 

“Just for the afternoon, you know.” 

“Inch worthy thinks we are practising.” 

“We knew Archie wouldn’t be back until 
dinner.” 

“And we were just dying to talk to you, 
and — ” 

“And tell you what a brick you are!’' 

Edith looked from one to the other in 
amazement. It was the first sign of real 
affection she had received from any of her 
husband’s family. As she gazed, she forgot 
their plainness, their ugly clothes, their 
awkward feet, their, large, tombstone teeth, 
55 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


their general unattractiveness, and saw only 
a genuine kindness shining out of their im- 
mature faces. 

“ Girls, do you mean it?” she said, timidly. 

“Mean that we like you? Why, we’ve 
adored you from the moment we saw you,” 
cried Alicia. 

“And we think mother has been simply 
rotten to you!” 

“And you’ve stood it like an angel!” 

“Though you have been jolly angry some- 
times.” 

Edith sat down suddenly. 

“Why, what’s the matter? Ai^e you ill? 
You look so pale.” 

“ It surprises me so,” murmured Edith. 

“Lie down and smell this,” urged Muriel. 

Alicia smoothed her hair. 

“Oh, what lovely hair!” she sighed. 

“And those little feet — like a baby’s,” 
cried Agatha. 

“ Edith, when you feel better, will you kiss 
us? Oh, don’t cry, Edith. We never meant 
to upset you. Do tell us what’s the mat- 
ter.” 


56 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“I — Fve been so lonely,” murmured 
Edith. “You don’t know how lonely you 
can be in a foreign country, with only one 
friend and everybody else hating you.” 

“Do you call England a foreign country?” 
asked Muriel. 

“I call any country foreign which makes 
me feel so much a stranger,” cried Edith, 
with temper. “People make a country, not 
a strange language, and here, if I’d been a 
lizard or an alligator which Archie wanted 
to live in the house with him, I couldn’t 
have been poked with sticks or pushed from 
one side of my cage to the other with um- 
brellas more than I have been by civilized 
human beings, or examined with more cold- 
blooded and impudent curiosity as to my 
native habits!” 

The girls looked from one to the other in 
surprise at this outburst from one who so 
habitually held her tongue under even ex- 
treme provocation. 

“ I know one thing that she means,” cried 
Alicia. “It makes her simply furious for 
mother to translate a French or German 
57 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


phrase to her, as if Edith didn’t speak the 
languages. I saw Edith tear her Valen- 
ciennes lace handkerchief in half last week 
when the Bishop of Ardsley said ' Prima- 
facie evidence,’ and mother said, ‘That 
means “on the face of it,” Edith,’ and di- 
rectly afterwards the Duchess of Strowther 
said 'Comme ga,' and mother said, ‘That 
means “like that,” Edith.’ If I’d been in 
Edith’s place, I would have said: ‘I under- 
stand Latin, Lady Mayhew, and I speak 
French much better than you do. You can 
ask mademoiselle if I don’t.’” 

Edith listened to this amazing defence of 
herself with incredulous ears. Could it be 
possible that champions of her defenceless 
position were to rise out of the Mayhew 
family itself? 

“If anybody wants to know what I 
think,” cried Agatha, the youngest, sitting 
astride a chair and leaning her arms on the 
back of it, “/ think that it’s enough to make 
the most even-tempered crazy angry to be 
treated always as if one had no breeding and 
came of no family, as mother treats Edith. 

58 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Now, of course, I don’t know anything about 
it, and Tessie says that servants and cab- 
drivers and rich people are all equal in 
America, but I dare say that Edith could 
tell us differently. Couldn’t you, Edith? 
Haven’t you any old families in the States?” 

“What difference would old families 
make,” said Edith, “if the members of it 
showed no breeding?” 

“Well, what do you mean by breeding?” 
asked Alicia. 

“Tell me first what you mean by it.” 

“Well,” said Alicia, slowly, looking for 
her sisters to help her out, “ I think we mean 
that when a girl is born of an old family, on 
one of the ancestral estates, and is educated 
by a governess in languages, and can draw 
and sing and do needle- work, and can ride 
and play at tennis — isn’t that what we 
mean, girls? — that she is well-bred. I think 
that is what we would call well-bred.” 

The other girls nodded. 

“Yes, that’s what we mean.” 

“I suppose,” said Edith, leaning her lit- 
tle pink chin in her hand, “that that is a 
59 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

good definition, and really shows thought, 
Alicia.” 

Alicia flushed until her pale eyes filled with 
water. She was not accustomed to praise. 

“Now, what do you call breeding?” cried 
Agatha, with a bounce on her chair. 

“I never have defined it,” said Edith, 
slowly; “but since you ask me, I should call 
a woman of the best breeding one who was 
borne with s avoir faire and one who avoid- 
ed giving pain to any one. If you combine 
those two qualities, you will have a lady, no 
matter if her family is so new that you can 
see the varnish on it.” 

Agatha screamed with delight and rocked 
the legs of her chair back and forth. 

“Agatha, what would Inch worthy say if 
she could see the way you are sitting and 
hear you shriek?” cried Muriel. 

“ But Edith is so funny,” squealed Agatha. 
“She is just as droll for us as she is for Sir 
John, and she doesn’t have to stop and think 
it up beforehand; it pops out on the instant 
— just like that about varnish on a new fam- 
ily!” 


6o 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Edith, tell Agatha to sit properly,” im- 
plored Alicia. 

“ I don’t care how she sits — she may stand 
on her head if she will only love me,” ex- 
claimed Edith, at which Agatha flung herself 
on her knees beside Edith’s chair, and the 
conquest of the entire four was complete. 

The young bride could not keep the won- 
der out of her eyes at the difference in the 
present behavior of her youthful kinswomen 
and that first anguished half-hour they spent 
in her company the afternoon of her arrival. 
Was that natural or was this? To-day they 
were like awkward young colts turned out to 
play. They hardly knew what to do with 
their liberty, except to frisk and kick up their 
heels in their delight at being out from under 
the eternal surveillance of Inchworthy and 
the dowager. 

Finally, however, another half-hour’s in- 
timate conversation enabled Edith to put a 
few questions, without undue curiosity. 

“Alicia,” she said, “how you have all 
changed since I first knew you!” 

“You mean,” broke in Agatha, “how like 

6i 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


simpletons we acted the day you arrived. I 
knew you would think we were fools — I told 
Muriel so. I said, ‘She takes us for seven 
fools’; and, indeed, we acted like it. But 
you don’t know how we had been warned 
against you. Mother said that if we had to 
meet you we were to try to forget every- 
thing you said, and on no account to copy 
your accent nor your voice, and not to be- 
lieve a word you said, because Americans 
always quizzed and chaffed their betters, 
and were so free in their speech and manners 
that it almost amounted to immorality. 
Yes, she did. She said that to Inch worthy, 
for I overheard her. So, of course, we were 
crazy to see you, and yet almost afraid you 
would bite us. But when we saw how sweet 
and simple you were, and how Archie adored 
you, and when we saw for ourselves that you 
weren’t loud nor noisy, and that you knew 
how to sit and walk, why we were so upset 
we hadn’t a word to say for ourselves.” 

“And, oh, wasn’t she sweet to give us 
extra lumps of sugar in our tea!” cried Mar- 
na, the third of the four. 

62 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Edith made no reply to this explanation. 
It began to dawn upon her that the dowager 
did not so much hate her personally as that 
she was undertaking, quite honestly, the civ- 
ilization of a savage American. 

“Edith,” said Muriel, timidly, after a 
pause, “won’t you show us how your maid 
does your hair? It is quite the loveliest 
thing I ever saw.” 

“I won’t let Cephyse touch it,” laughed 
Edith. “ I do it myself. No maid can ever 
do hair like mine.” 

The American girl paused, and saw in the 
wistful faces of her English sisters the long- 
ing to copy themselves upon her, to emulate 
her clothes and daintiness, and to escape 
from their own ugliness, which never had 
impressed itself upon their consciousness un- 
til she came among them. 

“Girls,” she said, “when I was your age 
I used to think the greatest fun in the 
world was to dress up in my mother’s 
clothes. Suppose you all dress up in mine.” 

If she had by a wave of the hand pre- 
sented four old maids with young, hand- 

63 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


some, and rich husbands, Edith could not 
have created a more ecstatic expression 
on countenances than on those of the four 
young English girls. A wave of respon- 
sive joy swept over her own soul. How 
simple it was, after all! And how the eter- 
nal feminine had supplied the electric bond 
which makes the whole world kin! The 
mere thought of being turned loose to riot 
at will among Edith’s Paris trousseau was 
more than if she had secured their soul’s 
eternal bliss by letters patent to salvation. 

They rushed up-stairs, two maids were 
called in, and the metamorphosis began. 

They had the beginnings of the English- 
woman’s beautiful figure — the small waist, 
flat back, sloping hips, and broad shoulders. 
Their blond skin, however, was too thin, 
and flushed too easily. It lacked the satiny 
finish and marble whiteness of Edith’s, but 
still they had the making of well-built, fresh- 
colored English girls. Under Edith’s direc- 
tion their fair hair was waved and dressed 
high. The maids laced them into Edith’s 
most marvellous clothes, and in the midst 
64 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


of their wildest excitement, caused by their 
own undeniable good looks, the door opened 
without the courtesy of a knock, and the 
dowager countess stood regarding them 
through her “starers.” 

Such was the terror they felt for their 
mother that the four stood as if turned into 
stone. 

Edith resented the intrusion. 

“I beg your pardon. Lady Mayhew, but I 
did not hear you knock,” she said. 

“I did not knock. Perhaps that was 
why you did not hear me,” said the dowager, 
coming in, propelling her chin forward at 
each step, as an angry turkey walks. To 
Edith’s surprise she was followed by an- 
other woman, a stranger. 

“Tessie,” said Lady Mayhew, “here are 
the girls,” pointing to the four graven im- 
ages, who were bereft of the power of mo- 
tion, “and there,” pointing to Edith, “is the 
American.” 

If she had said “And there is the Scarlet 
Woman,” the Dowager Countess of Mayhew 
could not have expressed more in her tone 

5 65 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

and her pointing finger. At first Edith was 
stung, and then — well, she laughed, a pretty, 
good-humored laugh of sheer amusement 
and appreciation. She was not conceited, 
but she had the true American girl’s self- 
respect, and she could not fail to see that 
there could be no real condescension in the 
attitude of the Englishwomen standing be- 
fore her, with such ill-hanging skirts, such 
feet, and such bonnets as compared to her- 
self in her Paris tea-gown. She was begin- 
ning to realize, as all Americans must who 
meet in England the not uncommon type 
of the dowager countess, that the English- 
woman’s provincialism was quite natural; 
not assumed for the occasion, in the least, 
but was an ignorance of all nations outside 
of the British, as deep-rooted and prejudiced 
as only British ignorance can be. Ignorance 
in a German, a Frenchman, or an Italian is 
deplorable enough, but when you add to 
ignorance a stubborn determination not to 
be convinced nor enlightened, and a rooted 
conviction that one’s own ignorance is due 
to the insignificance of the subject ignored, 
66 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


then you have the ignorance of the English 
man or woman of the type of Lady Mayhew. 
Fortunately, the war with Spain has done 
much towards eradicating, or rather modify- 
ing, this particular sort in regard to Ameri- 
cans. 

Tessie did not even greet her new kins- 
woman. She was absorbed in watching 
her mother-in-law annihilate the four sis- 
ters. 

“Take off those indecent clothes, and go 
instantly home to Inchworthy. I will see 
you when I return.” 

“Pray don’t abuse my poor clothes. Lady 
Mayhew,” said Edith. “Such a tone of 
condemnation is enough to make the very 
labels of Paquin and Fdlix turn red with 
shame.” 

“I speak the truth when I call them in- 
decent,” said Lady Mayhew. “They are 
too smart for any one except a Paris cocotte.'" 

Edith laughed again. 

“That is almost what they say in Paris,” 
she said. “I have even been warned by 
French friends against wearing a shirt- 
67 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


waist on the street, because none except 
American girls and cocottes wear them.'’ 

“What is a shirt-waist?” asked the dow- 
ager, regarding Edith through her lorgnon. 

“ It is what you call a cotton blouse,” said 
Edith. 

“ Our young people wear them just as the 
Americans do,” said Tessie, speaking for the 
first time. 

“Not just as we do,” thought Edith to 
herself, thinking of the backs of some Eng- 
lish girls she knew. 

“Good-bye, Edith, dearest,” called the 
girls from the doorway. “We’ve never had 
such a good time in our whole lives, and 
we’ll come again the very first chance we 
get.” 

Lady Mayhew’s face stiffened as she heard 
this impertinence. Tessie laughed. 

“You seem to have captivated them, 
Edith,” she said. 

“How do you do?” said Edith, pointedly, 
going up to Tessie and holding out her 
hand. 

Tessie reddened, but accepted the rebuke 
68 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


— indeed, rather liked Edith the better for it. 
It showed spirit. 

“I beg your pardon,” she said. 

“If you will come into the library, I will 
ring for tea. I do not receive in my dressing- 
room.” 

“Good,” said Tessie. “You are quite 
right, Edith. We had no business to in- 
trude on your privacy.” 

Edith looked around at Tessie, smiling 
doubtfully. Ordinarily she would have been 
disarmed at once by such frankness, and 
imagined that she and Tessie would be 
friends, but experience had taught her to 
await developments and give her new rela- 
tives the opportunity to dislike her and to 
express their adverse opinions of her before 
endeavoring to overcome them. It was a 
trying position for an American girl who 
had been accustomed to charm everybody 
from her childhood by her beauty and pretty, 
taking ways, but it did her good. Edith’s 
trust in people had been hitherto too uni- 
versal. It is equally bad for a toddling baby 
to make a practice of patting strange dogs 
69 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


on the head. After a few have snapped at 
her, she may learn discrimination and to 
know that a wag of the tail does not always 
imply that liberties may be taken. 

Edith was prepared to be inventoried. 
She bore unflinchingly Tessie’s scrutiny of 
her clothes, her house, her tea-service, and 
all her belongings. Tessie asked how many 
servants she kept, how many carriages, 
what her monthly expenses were, and if her 
uncle in America allowed her an income. 
Edith colored under some of these questions, 
but answered them. Tessie seemed sur- 
prised that her uncle had confined his gen- 
erosity to providing her with her trousseau. 

“Does Archie allow you to — ’’ began 
Tessie. 

Edith simply raised her eyes from her tea- 
cup, and the dowager broke in: 

“Archie allows Edith her own way in 
everything, Tessie, in the most pusillanimous 
way, and Sir John backs him up in it. Be- 
tween them she is abominably spoiled.” 

“ I don’t have my own way in everything, 
Lady Mayhew,” said Edith, gently, “or I 
70 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


would rid rayself of numberless annoyances 
which I now endeavor to bear quietly for my 
husband’s sake.” 

Tessie screwed her face into a malicious 
smile of understanding. 

“I shall ask Mayhew to continue Archie’s 
allowance,” she said, putting down her cup, 
“and—” 

“Indeed, Tessie, I hope you will not,” 
broke in the dowager. “Edith and Archie 
have plenty. Yankees are such good man- 
agers, they could very well afford to live 
more simply, and then you could bring 
Alicia out at the next Drawing-room. I beg 
you to think well before you promise.” 

The dowager shot a malignant glance at 
Edith. Was this vile American indepen- 
dence of hers to permeate the very atmos- 
phere of the Cavendish family and encourage 
revolt, not only in the girls, but in meek little 
Tessie also? 

“I have thought,” said Tessie, shaking 
the crumbs from her skirt. “I only wish 
Mayhew would take a few lessons from 
Archie, and allow me a little more free- 

71 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


dom. American women are very lucky, 
Edith.” 

“I think we are — in some things,” said 
Edith. 

“As I said before, tell Archie he can count 
on his allowance, and Mayhew begs that 
you and Archie will stay with us at Caw- 
dor for the shooting. The Charterseas are 
coming.” 

“Oh, is Sir John going?” cried Edith, with 
kindling eagerness. 

“If he is able,” said Tessie, smiling. “Is 
he as much your champion as he was in his 
letters?” 

“Sir John makes a perfect fool of himself 
over her,” said the dowager, stabbing Edith 
with one eye and rolling the other as if in 
search of fresh ammunition. 

“Come, we must be going,” said Tessie. 
“We have a long walk before us.” 

“Walk!” cried Edith. “You surely did 
not come on foot? And you not strong. 
Indeed, you should not have done so. Sit 
down and let me ring for the brougham. I 
cannot let you walk back. Why, your little 
72 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


babies are not two months old yet. Tell me 
about them.” 

Tessie sank back into her chair with a cu- 
rious look in her plain, little face. Never in 
her life had she been so considered before. 

“You have never thought necessary to 
order out the brougham for me, Edith,” ob- 
served the dowager, with displeasure. 

“I would have been glad to, if I had 
known you wanted it,” said Edith. “But 
as you seldom drive over, it never occurred 
to me to offer you my horses to drive 
back.” 

“Your horses, Edith? It would sound 
better to his mother if you said Archie’s 
horses,” said the dowager, in dignified re- 
proof. “You always say, ‘my table-linen,’ 
‘my silver.’ You mean Archie’s.” 

“But they are mine,” smiled Edith. “It 
would sound as absurd to me to say Archie’s 
linen as to say of this dress ‘Archie’s tea- 
gown.’ Those things always belong to the 
wife — in America.” 

“Doesn’t Archie mind?” asked Tessie, 
round-eyed. 


73 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Doesn’t Archie mind what?’’ said Caven- 
dish himself from the doorway. 

“Mind having Edith call all the furniture, 
the linen, the silver, the horses, the servants 
even — hers?’’ cried the dowager. 

“Not a bit of it. Tessie, my dear sister, 
I am glad to see you looking so well. How 
are the little ones? Good! Mater? No 
need to ask how you are. And as to Edith, 
if that little woman wants to call every- 
thing I have hers, she shall do it. In 
America everything belongs to the woman, 
Tessie.’’ 

Tessie laughed, then groaned. As for the 
dowager, she — well, she snorted — a polite, 
drawing-room snort, however, and one coun- 
tenanced by the best society. 

“I wish Mayhew could hear,” said Tessie. 

“Mayhew would only pity me,” laughed 
Archie, “until he saw Edith, and then he 
would understand it. But if you think I 
am foolish, Tessie, you should see Sir John. 
He is simply fatuous.” 

Tessie laughed. 

“So we have heard. He wrote a long 
74 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


letter to May hew from Venice which was full 
of her. Mayhew was delighted with it.” 

“How is your husband.?” asked Edith, 
smiling and coloring. “We heard he was 
not well.” 

“Mayhew has been awfully knocked up. 
He flew into a rage with the coachman be- 
cause he was late one day last week and 
walked three miles in the scorching sun at a 
tremendous pace and — nearly had a stroke,” 
said Tessie, lowering her voice and looking 
at the dowager. 

Archie looked seriously disturbed. 

“He should be so careful,” he said. 

“Yes, but he won’t. He won’t even be- 
lieve the doctors when they tell him that he 
is liable to go as his father did.” 

“The brougham, madam,” said the butler. 
The Cavendishes had no footman. 

“Your man should have announced the 
brougham to me, Archie,” said the dowager. 
Both ladies rose immediately. 

“As the brougham is Edith’s, he an- 
nounced it to her, my dear mater,” said 
Archie, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and, 
75 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


without allowing any one more time, he 
safely piloted his mother and Tessie to the 
carriage, shut them in, and then came back 
to his wife. 

Edith was waiting for him, with shining 
eyes. 

“Oh, Archie, dear!"' she cried, running 
towards him and flinging herself into his 
arms. 

“There, dear heart. Dear flower face,” 
he said, pressing his lips to her soft hair. 

“Oh, to think that you came right out and 
championed me before them both as you 
never did before. Oh! oh!” 

“You may thank Sir John for part of it, 
pretty one,” said her husband, generously. 
“ I have just come from him and he gave me 
such a talking to — such a regular wigging as 
I haven’t had since I was at Eton. He went 
for my mother shockingly, and said you were 
in the enemy’s country. I can’t have that 
white-haired old man loving you more chiv- 
alrously than your own husband, my own.” 

“Oh, dear Sir John,” laughed Edith, look- 
ing up into her husband’s face with such 
76 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


happy, shining eyes that her tall and usually 
self-contained husband closed them with his 
hand, and folded her jealously with his arms, 
murmuring more fond and pretty terms of 
rapturous endearment than he ever had been 
moved to express before. 

‘ ‘ Must I be taught to appreciate and love 
such a woman?” he thought, in strong self- 
reproach, as he realized Edith’s gratitude 
for his sudden rally to her support. 

Verily, dear Sir John! 


Chapter V 


A lthough sir John fully intended to 
L make the journey to Scotland in the 
company of the Cavendishes, his plans were, 
at the last moment, neatly frustrated by his 
wife and the dowager. The best and most 
determined of men are frequently outwitted 
by quite stupid women, and in this instance 
the dowager was attacked by so violent and 
sudden an illness, while on the very road to 
the station to take the train, that Lady 
Chartersea insisted upon turning back with 
her, and upon sending word to Archie and 
Edith, who had gone on ahead, not to wait 
for them. 

Sir John so strongly suspected the two 
amiable ladies who had him in charge that 
he endeavored to upset their little plot by 
sending word for Archie to wait for them, 
and they would all go on together in the 

78 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


morning. But, at this suggestion, the dow- 
ager recovered sufficiently to say that rather 
than subject the whole party to such incon- 
venience she would martyr herself and pro- 
ceed immediately, even if she died of pain 
on the way. 

Sir John was a gentleman. The carriage 
turned back. Edith and Archie went that 
day as planned, and the dowager fortunately 
recovered sufficiently to continue the jour- 
ney at the same hour on the day following. 

But Sir John was an invalid to the extent 
that he was unable to control his emotions 
as completely as he would have liked. He 
brooded childishly over the disappointment 
of not travelling through the lovely scenery 
in the sprightly company of, his little Ameri- 
can girl, and he shot revengeful glances from 
under his shaggy white eyebrows at the red- 
faced dowager in the far corner of his re- 
served carriage. Nor would he accept any 
attentions from his wife. If the truth must 
be told. Sir John sulked the whole way, and 
left the two ladies to carry on their low- 
toned conversation without any assistance 
79 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


from him. When he wanted an)rthing, he 
had the guard summon his man. When 
they wanted anything, they took care not 
to want it too strenuously between stations, 
but to wait until their maids came to ask if 
they were needed. So it was not the most 
amiable of travelling parties, but, to the 
great satisfaction of two of them, the Ameri- 
can, with her stylish travelling-clothes and 
bright face and pretty ways, was not there 
to stir up strife. 

Lady Chartersea, always tactless, occa- 
sionally offered a remark or suggested a 
change in her husband’s position, only to be 
met with a gruff refusal, which she took only 
as a matter of course. 

“ Sir John seems rather upset,” murmured 
Lady Mayhew. 

“He always was a little short in his 
temper. He has a strain of Irish blood in 
him. I think that is what makes him so 
different to most other Englishmen,” said 
his wife. 

“The doctor says it is bad for him to be 
excited, doesn’t he?” asked the dowager. 

8o 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Oh yes. He insists upon quiet. That 
is why I have such an objection to his seeing 
so much of Edith. She is so stimulating. 
He declares she is the cleverest creature he 
ever met.” 

“ I don’t call her clever in the least. I call 
her pert,” remarked the dowager, with a de- 
cision which in any one short of a countess 
would have seemed spiteful. 

“I confess that I don’t understand her,” 
returned Lady Chartersea. “In Cairo she 
used to be quite talkative before me, and I 
could see why Sir John should be amused at 
her chaff. But here in England she covers 
everything up with that demure little way 
of hers; but, from a look in her eyes, I think 
she mocks at us — at England, I mean — at 
our life here.” 

“I understand you,” said the dowager, 
sitting up suddenly. “I never mentioned 
it before, and I wouldn’t to any one but you, 
but at times she actually makes me uncom- 
fortable. Her lightness of character makes 
it appear that we take ourselves too seri- 
ously.” 

6 


8i 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Very well put,” said Lady Chartersea. 
“That phrase reminds me of Sir John.” 

The dowager reared her crest and rolled 
her unemployed eye around in its socket 
several times before her pleasure in her 
friend’s praise could be properly assimilated. 

“To me, with a serious purpose in life, 
with seven daughters to educate and find 
husbands for, such lightness seems quite 
reprehensible,” declared the dowager. 

“Quite so,” murmured her friend. 

“I endeavor to keep the dear girls from 
under her blighting influence as much as 
possible, but I am afraid that their youth 
makes them peculiarly susceptible. Agatha 
and Muriel in particular have been extreme- 
ly impertinent to me several times in con- 
nection with her.” 

“Shocking!” 

“It’s no good punishing them — they are 
too old for that. Inch worthy says, and I 
think the good soul is right. I forbade them 
any sugar in their tea for a fortnight for 
masquerading in her clothes that day, but 
Inch worthy reported that they didn’t mind 
82 


ANt) THE AMERICAN GIRL 


in the least. This caused me some suspicion, 
so I investigated while they were out, and 
found boxes of American sweets, the most 
extravagant kind of fancy candied fruits and 
marvellous bonbons, hidden away, evidently 
furnished by that little viper.” 

Lady Chartersea gripped the handle of 
her black bag tightly. 

“What did you do?” 

‘ ‘ I took them all away, of course. They 
were most delicious, but ruinous to the com- 
plexion. They will last me for a year.” 

” I still have part of a box that Edith gave 
me in Cairo,” said Lady Chartersea. “I 
open it perhaps once a month, but the 
Americans — did you ever see an American 
eat sweets?” 

“Never,” shuddered the dowager. 

“I hope you never may, then. I assure 
you that I have seen Edith Joyce buy a two- 
pound box of American sweets at Fuller’s 
in Paris, and eat it in a day and a half! 
You won’t believe me. I wouldn’t have be- 
lieved it myself if I hadn’t been an eye- 
witness.” 


83 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


The two ladies looked at each other in 
silence, then they shook their heads. 

“Everything she does — everything she 
says — even her clothes — are demoralizing,” 
groaned the dowager. “She has bewitched 
the girls. They copy her in every possible 
manner, and although I always send them 
away when she comes, they are in constant 
communication with her. She will ruin my 
girls — ruin them. Lady Chartersea. For I 
would rather see them dead than like her.” 

“Then there is but one thing to do, dear 
Lady Mayhew,” said her friend, laying her 
hand earnestly on the dowager’s knee, “and 
that is, you must influence her. She must 
not be allowed to come into our families and 
uproot and upset at will. I, too, have felt 
her blighting influence. I, too. You must 
civilize her. Lady Mayhew. You must 
teach her to keep her place, just as you 
would train a raw maid. At present she is 
nothing but une belle sauvage. But she has 
that American quickness, and she will learn, 
for she respects our English institutions 
and admires our people. Oh yes. Lady 

84 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


May hew. She admires us. Indeed, she 
does.” 

“I wonder if she does?” mused the dow- 
ager. 

“You must not allow yourself to wonder. 
You must undertake her as a sacred duty. 
She is a daughter to you as well as the girls. 
You must polish her — finish her, as it were. 
But no weakness. You must be firm with 
her. Remember, she has no mother.” 

“You are right,” said the dowager, set- 
tling her bonnet with an air of decision. 
“You are right. I must undertake her as 
a duty.” 

The train stopped at a small station and 
the Cawdor servants appeared. 

“Here we are,” said Sir John. “Look 
about, Parsons, and see if Mr. and Mrs. Cav- 
endish have come to meet us. Ah, there 
they are! And Tessie, too. Bless her heart. 
How are you, Edith? Archie, you’ll let me 
drive up with your wife, won’t you? That’s 
a good fellow. Thanks, Tessie. I’m fit as 
a fiddle. Archie, look after meh wife, will 
you?” 


85 


Chapter VI 



ELL, Edith,” said Sir John, his red 


V V face beaming down upon her, “how 
goes it?” 

“All very strange and foreign, but inter- 
esting,” said Edith. “You know we only 
arrived yesterday.” 

“Yes, yes,” said Sir John, shortly. “I 
know. Did you and Archie get the carriage 
I had reserved? I told Minton particularly 
to remind you.” 

“Oh yes, we got it, and thank you so 
much. But we were tremendously disap- 
pointed that you missed the train.” 

“ Missed the train!” snorted Sir John. “ I 
never missed a train in meh life. It was a 
trick of meh wife’s. She and Lady Mayhew 
put it up together. I know ’em. Meh wife 
says your society is too stimulating. Just 
because you make the old man laugh and 


86 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


forget for a few moments that he is doomed 
to die at any time. Too stimulating, indeed ! 
I want to be stimulated immediately. Tell 
me how they are treating you. Is Tessie 
nasty to you? Tessie can be very nasty 
when she chooses.” 

“No, to my surprise, Tessie seems to like 
me, and Mayhew is very kind.” 

“You aren’t telling me the truth, Edith.” 

Edith laughed. 

“Yes, I am. Tessie and Mayhew are do- 
ing their best.” 

“How about the others?” 

“Sir John, you mustn’t forget that I am 
Tessie ’s guest. I can’t abuse her friends, 
can I?” 

“Then you’d like to, if you hadn’t eaten 
her salt?” 

“No, not exactly. But I’d like to talk 
things over. You know you are the only 
human being in England who understands 
me, and I believe that is because you are 
part Irish. Even Archie, who loves me 
dearly, doesn’t see things the way you 
do.” 


37 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


"‘But Archie is getting a point of view, 
don’t you think?” 

‘ ‘ Oh yes. Archie is adapting himself won- 
derfully. But if he did understand the way 
you do, I couldn’t discuss things with him 
as I do with you, for these are his people. 
Don’t you see? And while my comments 
and criticisms would be made only in the 
spirit of the observing traveller, let us say, 
Archie’s strongest characteristic, and the 
one I most admire, is loyalty to his own, so 
that he is plainly disqualified. Besides that, 
Archie does not enjoy discussion. Conver- 
sation, just for the sake of exchanging ideas, 
has no charm for him, whereas it has for you 
and me.” 

“Few Englishmen do care for conversation 
per se. An Englishman likes to give you his 
views, but he doesn’t care a hang for yours.” 

“Yes, and isn’t it strange? Now, when I 
have a set of impressions on a new subject, I 
am crazy to know what Archie thinks of it, 
and then what you think. I even like to 
hear what Lady Mayhew thinks, it is so cer- 
tain to be wrong.” 


88 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Sir John shouted. 

''Isn't it? Did you ever know a woman 
who could be so persistently and consistently 
antagonistic to every view and idea you have 
in your brain as the dowager? And her 
placid air of assurance that her fiat is final, 
and the only legitimate answer to a problem, 
is so infernally exasperating that, ’pon meh 
word, Edith, some day I know I shall hit her 
in the eye with meh walking-stick. I know 
I shall. It ’ll be too much for me some day.” 

Sir John chuckled alarmingly at the men- 
tal picture he had drawn, and whipped up 
the cob. Edith watched him with some un- 
easiness, for he had refused to have a groom, 
and she never knew what sort of exertion or 
form of excitement was bad for him. 

“Don’t let’s hurry. Let’s make the drive 
as long as we can,” she said. 

Sir John shot her a keen glance from his 
blue eyes. 

“Edith, if you were meh daughter or 
granddaughter, you would lead me around 
by the nose, and I never would care a ha’- 
penny.” 


89 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“What makes you think so?” 

“Because you are such a sly little thing, 
and your tact is never at fault. Now, if meh 
wife or the dowager had wanted me not to 
exert mehself, they would have cried out, 
‘Oh, Sir John! Don’t let him pull so, Sir 
John! Pray, don’t tire yourself, meh dear! 
Remember the doctor’s orders, Sir John,’ 
and made me feel so like a damned baby, 
with meh feet pinned up in swaddling- 
clothes, that I’d have got in a towering rage 
and given the horse his head out of pure 
contrariness.” 

“And which would probably have brought 
on a bad attack,” said Edith. 

“Certainly, and which would all have 
been — ” 

“Their fault,” supplemented Edith, de- 
murely. 

“Without a doubt,” chuckled Sir John. 

Plainly he enjoyed the whimsical nature 
of the American girl. 

“Who is here? Are we a large party?” 
he asked, presently. 

“The Bishop of Ardsley, and the Duchess 
90 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


of Strowther and her daughter, Lady Mary 
Goddard, and the most delightful old French- 
woman, Madame des Planches — ” 

“I know her. A fascinating creature. 
So daintily malicious that you can barely 
detect it, and tremendously discriminating.” 

“ But, Sir John, tell me why well-bred peo- 
ple discuss such extraordinarily indelicate 
questions in public — at the dinner-table, for 
example? I am not a prude, but I assure 
you that not even in Paris have I heard 
such — well, to be frank, such indecent con- 
versation as I have heard in England, par- 
ticularly in London.” 

“Why, I don’t know,” said Sir John, slow- 
ly. “Are we indecent?” 

“I don’t know what your standards are. 
I can only say that in America we hold some 
things too sacred and others too immoral to 
discuss publicly.” 

“I’ll listen to-night,” said Sir John, as- 
tutely. “Tessie always manages to get a 
mixture in her house-parties, and the Lon- 
don set are well represented in the duchess 
and Lady Mary.” 


91 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“I wasn’t referring to anything I have 
heard here,” said Edith, coloring. 

“Weren’t you? Well, perhaps it will ap- 
ply before we have done with them. What 
do you think of Lady Mary? She is con- 
sidered one of the most beautiful young 
women in England.” 

“Is she? Yes, she is beautiful — but — 
well. I’ll look at her again to-night.” 

“You’ll give her another chance, you 
mean.” 

“Well, there were no men here last night 
except Mayhew and Archie and the bishop. 
Three arrived to-day, however, so perhaps 
she will do us the honor to put on a gown 
which is at least fresh.” 

“ Is Tessie going to give us a ball, do you 
know?” asked Sir John. 

“ I don’t know. I have heard nothing of 
it. Why do you ask?” 

“ Because I want you to have a chance to 
look your best,” answered the old man, 
frankly. “But if she isn’t, then you must 
do your best at every dinner. Have you 
brought plenty of frocks?” 

92 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Edith laughed and looked up gratefully 
at Sir John. 

“Yes, I have. I even went to the ex- 
travagance of ordering some new ones.” 

“Good!” said Sir John. “Good! You 
must put on a new one every day. I want 
you to make ’em sit up. I want you to — 
what was that thing you said that I liked 
so much? Hit ’em — no — ” 

“Knock ’em silly,” said Edith, dimpling. 

“That’s it. I want you to knock ’em 
silly. Don’t let Lady Mary ignore you. 
Don’t permit the duchess to snub you. If 
Sir Wemyss Lombard is here, monopolize 
him. He is said to be in love with Lady 
Mary and she with him, but her mother 
won’t hear to it, because he is poor. He is 
heir to the Chidworth estate, however, and 
if he gets that everything will be smooth 
sailing. If he has come back from America, 
he’ll be here.” 

“He is here. He came to-day. But, Sir 
John, even to please you. I’m not going to 
flirt with Lady Mary’s lover, nor any other 
man, for that matter.” 

93 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

“Why not, pray? You flirted enough in 
Cairo, to my certain knowledge.” 

“Yes, but I wasn’t married then. Archie 
wouldn’t like it now.” 

Sir John looked at her and pulled at his 
white mustache. 

“Well, then, don’t exactly flirt, but be 
nice to him. Encourage him to talk to you. 
Be friends with him. Let him see that you 
like him.” 

“ In other words, flirt with him under the 
guise of friendship, and cheat myself into 
thinking I am doing no harm,” cried Edith. 
“Look here. Sir John. What has got into 
you? Why do you advise me to do such a 
thing? Aren’t you a friend of my hus- 
band’s?” 

Sir John did not answer at once. He 
looked straight between the horse’s ears and 
frowned a little. Then he said, abruptly: 

“Edith, you were quite right when you 
said that things seemed foreign to you here. 
It sounded odd at first, for we English are 
accustomed to thinking Americans as re- 
lated to us — our children, so to speak. But, 
94 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 

after all, we are two nations, and you are as 
foreign to us as we seem to you. Now, per- 
haps I shall explain it badly, but there is 
such a thing as being over-refined in smart 
English society, of being too ladylike, of be- 
ing so unobtrusive that you will be over- 
looked. The English like to have their 
sleep disturbed, but they never will wake 
up of their own accord. They won’t inquire 
too closely into a personality. They won’t 
read a page too finely printed. They are 
indolently somnolent. In order to win their 
attention and respect, you must frighten or 
bully them. Shock them out of their leth- 
argy. Do you understand me? Lady Mary 
is a spoiled beauty. Ten to one she won’t 
look at you unless you attract one of her 
satellites. Make yourself dangerous to her 
supremacy and then she will respect you. 
You are a married woman. Assert yourself. 
When Lady Mayhew insults you, be im- 
pertinent to her. Differ with the duchess, 
and don’t let her browbeat you. Tessie has 
made the same mistake, but she did it be- 
cause she was a coward ; you are doing it be- 
95 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


cause you are a lady. It doesn’t pay to be 
too much of a lady in England, meh dear. 
You’ll only get snubbed for your pains. 
Remember what an old man tells you — an 
old man who has made good use of his ears 
and eyes, and who has been everywhere and 
seen everything. Buck up now. Flirt harm- 
lessly with the men and be nasty to the 
women, and see how it works.” 

Edith’s eyes sparkled dangerously. Sir 
John had touched the springs of American- 
ism in her, but she made no immediate reply. 

‘‘Who else is here?” asked Sir John, after 
a sidelong glance at her which seemed to 
satisfy him. 

‘‘Mrs. Terence O’Gorman — ” 

‘‘ Good Lord!” laughed Sir John. ‘‘ Tessie 
is going it a bit.” 

‘‘And Lady Munkittrick — ” 

Sir John turned and looked at her. 

‘‘I don’t wonder that you said the con- 
versation was indecent,” he said. ‘‘I’ll wager 
Nora O’ Gorman didn’t make one remark that 
you could repeat to me.” 

‘‘Well, I don’t know,” said Edith. ‘‘Some 
96 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


of them were very subtle and everybody 
roared, but they seemed so indelicately pub- 
lic. Now, I adore scandal and gossip as 
much as any woman, but the place for it 
is not before men, nor to be shouted at the 
top of one’s voice. There are the amenities 
to be considered.” 

“What did she say to Lady Munkittrick? 
Those two are as good as a Pinero play.” 

“Well, one thing was this. Lady Mun- 
kittrick had been to the nursery to see the 
babies, and after remarking how much they 
looked like Mayhew, she said, plaintively, 
‘Now, my children look like neither of us. 
Munkittrick and I are both light, and the 
children are both dark.’ Whereat Mrs. 
O’Gorman said, ‘But, Elsie, remember that 
some of your best men friends are dark.’ 
And everybody simply screamed.” 

“And the beauty of it is,” said Sir John, 
with a chuckle, “that Lady Munkittrick 
is about the only smart woman I know 
who has not taken a lover. She is simply 
daffy over Munkittrick. That is one reason 
Nora O’Gorman always attacks her. She 
97 


7 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


hates a woman to be so different to all the 
others." 

“Oh, Sir John," cried Edith, warmly, 
“you don’t mean that Lady Munkittrick is 
the only one?" 

“Of the smart ones, yes. Let me. see if 
I am wrong. The Duchess of Strowther has 
a son by Sir William Vargrave, Tessie’s fa- 
ther. Madame des Planches is a Parisienne, 
so I don’t know her former record. She has 
been the friend of the Duke of Strowther and 
three others, to my certain knowledge. N ora 
O’ Gorman has two children, one by May hew 
and one by Sir Wemyss Lombard, and none 
by poor old Terence. But he doesn’t care, 
because he has one of the handsomest women 
in Great Britain, Mrs. Poindexter — or had 
her, the last I heard. But that was before 
I went to Cairo, so possibly he has switched 
off before this." 

Edith looked up at him with eyes of hor- 
ror. 

“She isn’t here," she said. 

“Ah, then it is some one else with Ter- 
ence, as I fancied. For if the affair were still 
98 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


on, she would be here, you may depend upon 
it. I must look into the matter and find out 
where she is and who is with her now. It 
would never do to allow mehself to get be- 
hindhand in matters of this sort.” 

He looked down at Edith quizzically, but 
she failed to answer him with her usual smile. 

“And does everybody know all this?” she 
said, at length. 

“Certainly,” cried Sir John, cheerfully. 
“But this is ancient history. The present 
affairs are all different, but, take meh word 
for it, there are plenty of lovers in this same 
party of ours or Tessie never would have got 
them. One won’t accept an invitation with- 
out the other, you know.” 

Edith was silent, and Sir John added, 
apologetically: 

“It has got pretty bad, I will admit that. 
But you might as well face the situation and 
learn not to be squeamish.” 

“Then, considering the real lives of these 
people, their conversation was not at all be- 
neath them, for I have told you about the 
way the talk ran,” said Edith. 

99 


(LofC. 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“And you object to it?’’ said Sir John. 

“No, not in itself. I have an idea that it 
is none of my business to criticise unfavor- 
ably the ideals of the English or French or 
German morality or taste. It is their own 
affair. As long as you observe the Monroe 
Doctrine as applicable to yourselves, Eng- 
land for the English, I shall never complain. 
You may be as clever and witty and wicked 
as ever you like, and I shall only look on and 
enjoy it. But when you English attack me, 
and object to my standards and ideals, and 
criticise my taste simply because it hap- 
pens to differ from yours, then I rise up and 
not only defend mine as infinitely purer and 
more refined and superior in every way to 
yours, but I will attack yours tooth and 
nail and fight you to a finish.’’ 

“Edith,” said Sir John, slowly, “why in 
hell — no, I sha’n’t beg your pardon for that, 
because I mean it — why in hell don’t you 
talk that way when they attack you? That 
is the first time I have seen a trace of the 
old Cairo spirit. Why do you sit down 
twirling your thumbs like a little assy-go- 


lOO 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


assy — to say just plain ‘ass’ seems to give 
me no relief at all — and let them maul you 
as they please ? Why don ’t you go for them ? 
Tell me that!” 

‘‘Well, things have changed,” said Edith, 
smiling at Sir John’s deliberate vehemence. 
‘‘I am married into the family. To defend 
myself, I would become too bitter and stir 
up strife. Then, too, I am always either a 
guest of theirs or they are guests of mine, 
and my ideals of hospitality will not allow 
me to take advantage of the opportunity.’' 

“ Nonsense!” cried Sir John. “Nonsense, 
I say!” 

“Nevertheless, it is my code. I can’t de- 
scend to meet them on their own level.” 

“Then, if you could meet on mutual 
ground, would you talk back, as you do to 
me when we are alone?” 

“Try me,” flashed Edith. “Just try me 
and see.” 

Sir John pulled at his mustache, then 
nodded his head. 

“We shall see,” he said. “But, Edith, 
remember this. When the time comes. 


lOI 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


don’t flinch. Say your worst and do your 
worst. You can’t turn the British stomach. 
We are used to calling a spade a spade. For- 
get hospitality; forget that you are a little 
lady. Remember only that you are an 
American defending your country against 
British sneers.” 

Sir John was well satisfied with the look 
Edith gave him. 


Chapter VII 


ALTHOUGH the Mayhews were compara- 
l\ tively poor, the family was old, dis- 
tinguished, and exclusive. Aside from that, 
everybody knew that there was plenty of 
money in trust for the first male heir, and 
so, in spite of invitations where the enter- 
tainment would be more sumptuous, Tessie 
had been able to gather a party culled from 
the smartest of society. 

Take, for example, the Duchess of Strow- 
ther and the reigning beauty. Lady Mary 
Goddard. The duchess was one of the 
most influential women in Great Britain, 
yet she had chosen, out of half a hundred in- 
vitations, to come to Cawdor. 

The duke would not be of the party until 
the next day, but Sir John told Edith that 
he was one of the handsomest peers in Eng- 
land, and from him Lady Mary got her 
103 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


beauty. Certainly she never got it from her 
mother, or, if she did, she got it all, for the 
face of the duchess was fascinating in its 
ugliness. 

Her nose was flat and the nostrils am- 
biguously melted into her billowy cheeks 
without troubling to let you know the line 
of demarcation. Small red and purple 
veins ran scattering over her face like rivers 
on a well - drawn map. Her mouth was 
loose, her teeth projecting and fan-shaped, 
and Sir John was vile enough to warn Edith 
that the duchess was a human atomizer, and 
she’d better raise an umbrella when she 
talked to her. The duchess was fat — not 
large, but fat — and, to quote Sir John again, 
“that part of the duchess which you can see 
in evening-dress looks for all the world like 
two loaves of Graham bread set to rise.” 
Nora O’ Gorman, to whom he said this, said 
the wicked part of Sir John’s speech lay in 
the word “Graham,” but she admitted, un- 
der pressure, that the duchess was rather 
polka-dotted. 

Mrs. O’ Gorman herself was keen and 
104 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


clever-looking. That, of course, precludes 
her being beautiful, but her hair came in a 
fuzzy fringe to her eyebrows and ended in 
the universal Bath-bun in the back. She 
wore twelve silver and gold bangle bracelets 
on one of her thin arms, and her gowns were 
frequently trimmed in chenille fringe which 
looked like caterpillars. 

Lady Mary had the limpid cow - eyes of 
so many beautiful Englishwomen, who look 
so adorably at you when you are getting off 
your most brilliant whimsicalities that you 
do not in the least care that an understand- 
ing has not got behind those eyelashes. For 
their eyelashes are so long and thick and 
sweep so bewitchingly over those peachy 
cheeks, can you blame even a witticism for 
becoming entangled therein? 

Lady Mary was undeniably a more beau- 
tiful woman than Edith Cavendish, yet in a 
ballroom Edith would have attracted more 
attention. Lady Mary’s hair was not be- 
coming in a bun, and her fringe covered a 
broad, low, beautiful brow, as white as milk 
and as smooth as satin. In the same way, 

105 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

the delicate sweep of her fine eyebrows was 
lost under the edges of the invisible hair-net 
which invariably held her fringe in place. 
But her long, slender neck was as graceful as 
a swan’s, her figure was perfect, and her face 
something to dream about and rave over. 
Her clothes were Paris-made and of great 
beauty, but she never knew how to wear 
them; whereas Edith’s at once took on an 
individual stamp, because electrically in- 
volved in her own brilliant personality, and, 
from a sleeve to a glove, possessed an air of 
distinction. Edith walked well, stood well, 
sat well. There was something very at- 
tractive about the way she held her head. 
It was not pride, as it was in Lady Munkit- 
trick, nor hauteur, as it was in the duchess, 
but it held some of the expectant gladness of 
youth, of unconscious freedom from tradi- 
tion, and an unspoken air of eagerness to 
see what was coming next. If the stupid 
would not at once cry “Spread-eagleism,” I 
might venture on the suggestion that Edith 
walked and stood nationally. 

May hew admired his new sister-in-law 
io6 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


frankly, and was at some pains to show her 
attention. This pleased Archie, and, in his 
pride at it, he accidentally undid some of the 
good effect, for his newly acquired veneer of 
American devotion to his wife so powerful- 
ly affected Tessie that she very unwisely de- 
manded the same from Mayhew, which only 
excited deep disgust in her husband, and, in 
a measure, stopped his attentions to Edith. 

Tessie was well-meaning, but tactless to a 
degree. Instead, therefore, of chalking her 
husband’s cue at billiards, as she had always 
done ever since they were married, and even 
when they were engaged, upon seeing Archie 
quite naturally chalk Edith’s, Tessie held 
hers out to Mayhew with her head on one 
side and a plaintive demand for a similar 
office. Mayhew only stared at her and told 
her not to be a fool, whereat she promptly 
took his advice, and was not a fool any 
more that evening. But, with her genius for 
knocking her head against a stone wall, her 
next attempt came a day later. Edith was 
easily chilled, and in her present condition 
was peculiarly susceptible to draughts. Her 
107 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


maid, Cephyse, always hovered around even- 
ings with a chiffon which Archie invariably 
took from her, and with his own hands 
spread it across his wife’s shoulders. Such 
things were trifles; Cephyse could quite as 
well have done it; but they pleased Edith, 
and Archie was amiable enough to humor 
her. The third evening Tessie saw this she 
could stand it no longer. Although she 
never had a cold in her life, she fetched a 
white, knitted, wool shawl and held it out 
to Mayhew. He took it, without knowing 
what she wanted. 

“What shall I do with it?” he asked. 

“Put it around me. I feel chilly.” 

Mayhew’s short neck and red face became 
suffused with blood. (His father had died of 
apoplexy.) He flung the shawl on the floor. 

“ Have you no servants?” he cried. Then 
he cast a black look at Edith and strode out 
of the room, while Tessie humbly stooped, 
and, picking up the shawl, put it around her- 
self, until, ten minutes later, panting with 
heat, she slipped it off and went outside for 
a breath of air. 

io8 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


It seemed to Sir John that Edith was the 
object of everybody’s interest, which was 
slightly hostile to begin with. Sir John was 
reminded of a paddock of horses into which 
a spirited, strange colt was admitted. The 
sniffings, the suspicious eyes, the advances 
and retreats, the silent nose-to-nose con- 
ferences among themselves before the regu- 
lar inmates could bring themselves to let the 
handsome stranger crop his grass in peace, 
were all enacted over again in the drawing- 
rooms of Cawdor. Edith, by the very lift of 
her head and the flash of her eye, seemed to 
challenge inspection, and more than one in 
the party seemed determined to put her at a 
stiff hedge to see if she would go over it with 
a toss of her mane and a clean pair of heels. 

Sir John clucked around her, to change 
the simile, like an old hen. He never saw 
her in a t^te-h-tete with a woman that he did 
not make an excuse to draw near, and he 
never was disappointed in his suspicions. He 
was sure to hear a sentence beginning, “It’s 
ver-r-ry ke-your-rious that you Americans,” 
and so forth, and so on. The curiousness of 
log 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


American institutions seemed never to have 
been brought so near as by the advent of one 
of the strange breed introduced into their 
midst. Edith bore it well, but one could 
see by the occasional whitening of her thin 
nostrils that things wefe beginning to get. 
on her nerves. Sir John fretted and fumed, 
but as yet Edith had not taken the bit in 
her teeth. 

On the third evening the whole party 
was complete. Everybody who was ex- 
pected had come. Archie came to the door 
of his wife’s dressing-room and knocked. 

“Edith, may I come in?” he said. 

“Certainly, dear. Cephyse is not here. 
What is it?” 

“I want you to be particularly smart to- 
night . I thought I would mention it to you. ’ ’ 

“Why, what for, Archie?’’ asked his wife, 
opening her eyes. 

“Well, I think it would please Sir John. 
He asked me what you were going to wear.’’ 

Edith flung back her head and laughed. 

“Oh, dear Sir John,’’ she said. “He 
ought to have been my grandmother.” 


no 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“ Edith,” said her husband, reproachfully, 
” he is very kind to take an interest in you, I 
think.” 

‘‘•And am I not kind to take such an inter- 
est in him?” cried Edith, irritably. 

Her husband bent over her. 

‘ ‘ What is it, dear one ? Is anything troub- 
ling you? You never spoke so about Sir 
John before. I thought you were fond of 
him.” 

‘‘I am fond of him. Next to you I love 
him better than anybody in the world. But 
can’t you see how I am badgered?” 

‘‘Badgered?” 

‘‘Yes, badgered,” cried Edith, savagely. 
‘ ‘ I suppose you know what a badger is ? 
Tormented! Irritated! Nagged! Devilled!” 

‘‘Well, I have noticed that they have 
made you rather a target, but you seem to 
have lost so much of your furious pride in 
American institutions since you became an 
Englishwoman that I thought you didn’t 
mind, as you used to mind in Cairo.” 

‘‘Since I became a what?” asked Edith, 
ominously. 


Ill 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Well, you became an Englishwoman — a 
British subject, that is to say, when you 
married me,” said Cavendish, apologeti- 
cally. 

“ Did I?” said Edith, with a little crooked 
smile. Her breath came a trifle short. “Be 
satisfled, Archie. I will be smart to-night.” 

Cavendish kissed her and went out. When 
he was gone, Edith took a tortoise-shell hair- 
brush and flung it against the farthermost 
wall. She smiled to see it shattered. 

“Since I became an Englishwoman!” she 
ground out from between her teeth. “Since 
I became a — ” she choked over the word. 

“Cephyse,” she cried, when her maid 
responded to her furious ring, “unpack my 
flame-colored chiffon.” 

Cephyse looked at her mistress in aston- 
ishment. 

“Mais, madame. Ce soir?” 

“Yes. To-night. I am going to — yes, for 
to-night I am going to be an American.'* 


Chapter VIII 


S IR JOHN had seen many beautiful wom- 
en in his day, but when Edith Cavendish 
swept into the white drawing-room at Caw- 
dor that night before dinner the old man 
fairly gasped. 

Her gown was, indeed, flame - colored — 
every color of flame, from orange-red to buff, 
made of shimmering chiffon over satin, and 
so cunningly arranged that with every 
movement the jets blazed up afresh. Iri- 
descent ornaments sparkled mysteriously 
whenever the colors changed, and seemed 
like the blue tips which waver upward from 
a fire of driftwood. Made by a less cunning 
artist or worn by a less refined woman, the 
dress would have been loud. But, as it was, 
Edith’s graceful slenderness changed it from 
a blaze to an illumination. 

113 


8 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

Nevertheless, the whole thing fairly leaped 
at you and took your imagination captive. 
While she was within sight you could look 
at no other woman and think of no other 
gown. Her arms were bare to the shoulders. 
Her white neck was hung with chains of 
topaz, and her hands were heavy with rings. 
She wore no gloves, nor even carried them 
as an affectation. Her fan was of carved 
amber and brilliant with plumage of a my- 
riad of tropical birds of every shade from 
orange to ruby. Her glorious red hair was 
dressed high and was guiltless of a single 
ornament. From the delicate tendrils which 
curled at the nape of her warm neck to the 
wave as it swept from her low brow, it was a 
head upon which nature had done so much 
that art could add nothing to its beauty or 
its regal poise. Her eyes flashed like stars, 
and when Lady Mary Goddard, a few mo- 
ments later, entered, several made the in- 
ward comment that she looked pale. But 
she was no paler than usual. It was that 
the brilliant American girl had absorbed all 
the color there was anywhere, and had en- 
114 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


veloped herself in it like Brunhild on her 
couch of flame. 

When May hew caught sight of her, he 
whispered hurriedly to Tessie: 

“Have Lady Munkittrick’s and Edith’s 
places changed at the table. I want that 
girl on my left to-night. Jove! She’s the 
handsomest thing I ever saw.’’ 

So the duchess was on his right. He took 
her out, and Edith followed on the arm of 
Sir Wemyss Lombard. This Tessie had not 
intended, for Lady Mary had plainly showed 
her displeasure when she overheard her 
fianc^ call Edith “a ripper.’’ But Sir John, 
who sat opposite and next to the duchess, 
where she could spatter him at will, was 
plainly jubilant. 

Edith felt the sensation she had created, 
but she controlled her inward excitement, 
and endeavored to hold herself in reserve. 
Sir John noticed that she refused wine. 
Mayhew insisted upon her glasses being 
filled, but they stood as they were, full to 
the brim, undisturbed. 

The other women, on the contrary, if they 

115 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


felt the tension, prepared for it in quite the 
opposite way, and their glasses were emptied 
rapidly. 

The first remark which caused Sir John’s 
eyes to seek Edith’s was one of Terence 
O’ Gorman’s. 

“I was completely bowled over by my 
kiddie the other day. She has taken a 
great streak at studying the Bible — by way 
of contrast to her mother and father, I’m 
thinking — and she put me up against the 
Ten Commandments. I was giving tea to 
three pretty girls, when kiddie said, ‘Dad- 
die, I think I could keep all of the Com- 
mandments except the adultery one. That, 
I am sure, I should break.’ Such frankness, 
you may be sure, upset me as well as my tea. 
Most of it — the tea, I mean — ran up my 
sleeve, but I bucked up. ‘And why not, 
kiddie?’ I said. ‘ Because,’ said she, ‘ it is so 
difficult to keep from wanting things that 
belong to other people.’ At that my hair 
stood on end. Did she refer to my neighbor’s 
ox and his ass, or my neighbor’s wife and 
maid-servant? The girls were looking for 

ii6 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


the nearest tree, but I persevered, though 
terrified out of my life. ‘What sort of 
things, kiddie?’ said I. ‘Oh, mostly rabbits 
and white mice,’ she said. That let me 
out. You see, her infernal old-maid gov- 
erness had told her that adultery meant 
envy.” 

“And so it does — pushed a bit further,” 
said his wife. 

Sir John was plainly delighted, but en- 
deavored to conceal it out of deference to 
Edith’s supposed puritanism. But to his 
surprise he found her smiling with the rest. 
Her intuitions were not at fault. She felt 
sure her time was coming later, and she had 
no intention of wasting either energy or am- 
munition. 

The dowager and Lady Chartersea, at the 
other end of the table, were wrought up to 
fever heat by Edith’s flame-colored gown. 
The dowager was manoeuvring with her chin 
and plainly preparing for an attack. Finally 
it came, but came in such a guise that even 
Edith’s nerve was sadly shaken. 

“I can make no plans,” came down the 
117 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


table on a moment of silence in the dowager’s 
voice, “because I do not know the date of 
Edith’s confinement.” 

With all her courage, Edith, who was 
speaking to Mayhew, could not keep the tell- 
tale blood from mounting from her white 
neck to the very waves of her hair. It was a 
painful, agonized blush — the like of which 
Mayhew never had seen before. Her eyes, 
too, gleamed with the smart of bitter tears, 
which she bit her lip to keep from falling. 
To hear brutally spoken of the dear secret 
which she and her husband could as yet only 
whisper of to each other in moments of shy 
yet delighted confidence! It cut her to the 
heart. Verily the dowager’s shot had been 
aimed at the only vulnerable part of Edith’s 
armor. Mayhew had looked up fiercely, 
stung to sudden sympathy by the anguish 
in Edith’s face. But before he could inter- 
fere the dowager said: 

“Tell us, Edith, when you expect to be 
confined?” 

Sir John and Mayhew both looked as if 
ready to interfere, but Edith stopped them 

ii8 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


with a look. Without even turning her face 
in the direction of the dowager, she replied: 

“Not until after the first of the year, Lady 
Mayhew.” 

Sir J ohn drew a long breath. The duchess 
turned to him with a casual remark, having 
seen nothing, and Mayhew’s hand for an in- 
stant gripped Edith’s as it lay near his own, 
as he muttered: 

“By Jove, Edith, you are the most won- 
derful woman I ever knew!” 

But, to his horror, Edith, with her face 
still averted from the rest of the table, but 
looking directly into Mayhew’s, let two tears 
overflow and run down her cheeks. 

“ See what you did,” she said, still without 
moving, “by your sympathy. I could have 
kept those back if you had not spoken.” 

In another moment, behind her fan, she 
dashed their traces away and was herself 
again. 

Sir John’s face was a study. Involun- 
tarily he kept drawing his fist to his shoulder 
and half-way extending his arm again as if 
practising for a blow. 

119 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“What will you do, duchess,” called Mrs. 
O’Gorman, across the table from her place 
at Sir Wemyss Lombard’s left, “if Aber- 
nethy brings home an American bride?” 

“Oh, Mrs. O’Gorman,” said the duchess, 
“how can you suggest such a thing!” 

“Spiteful little Irish cat,” murmured the 
duchess to Sir John, but in a tone which 
plainly reached Mrs. O’Gorman. “She is 
just clever enough to know that that is the 
only thing I am afraid of from this absurd 
American tour of Abernethy’s.” 

Sir Wemyss screwed his glass into his eye 
nervously. He alone knew of Abernethy’s 
engagement to the American heiress. Edith 
also suspected, from letters from her cousin 
Cornelia Winthrop, but, though her ears were 
scarlet from this conversation, she stead- 
fastly kept her face turned towards May- 
hew. 

“You won’t call it an absurd tour if the 
altitude of the Rocky Mountains undoes the 
damage to Abernethy’s chest which a Boer 
bullet inflicted,” put in Sir Wemyss, pacifi- 
cally. 


120 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“No, I shouldn’t,” said the duchess. 
“But, all the same, I don’t want him to 
marry one.” 

“Don’t want him to marry which — a 
Boer bullet or a Rocky Mountain?” asked 
Mrs. O’Gorman, impertinently. 

“Whatever are you talking about?” de- 
manded the duchess, whose sense of humor 
was not keen. 

“The dear duchess is so obscure,” mur- 
mured Mrs. O’ Gorman, plaintively. 

“Obscure? I, obscure?” spattered the 
duchess, with increasing color. 

“Oh, only in your meaning, dear duchess, 
believe me,” said the Irishwoman, fluttering 
her eyes demurely at Sir John. 

The duchess was plainly irritated. She 
grumbled under her breath, and shot vin- 
dictive glances at Mrs. O’Gorman. She al- 
ways felt that the keen-witted Irishwoman 
was making game of her, but she never knew 
how nor in what manner. Now her little, 
green eyes, with their red rims, roved around 
the table, seeking whom to attack. Finally 
they rested on Edith. She was an American. 


I2I 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“She’s off!” gurgled Mrs. O’Gorman, as 
the duchess prepared to speak. 

“Isn’t it ke-yourious,’’ said the duchess, 
not lowering her voice, “to find Mrs. Caven- 
dish speaking with a broad a and lacking 
the shrill voice of most Americans? She 
must have been educated abroad, don’t you 
think. Sir John?’’ 

“I believe that she never was away from 
America until a year ago, when she began 
her travels abroad,’’ returned Sir John; 
“but from her description of her country I 
find it a most cultivated and enlightened 
land and full of charm to the English 
mind.’’ 

“Fancy!’’ said the duchess. “I always 
imagine it still one of our colonies.’’ 

“My mind has been greatly disturbed of 
late,’’ said the bishop, overhearing these re- 
marks, “by the outrages against negroes in 
the States.’’ 

He glanced aggressively at young Mrs. 
Cavendish as he spoke, and Edith laid down 
her fork and took up her fan. 

“Isn’t it ver-ry ke-yourious,” said the 
122 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


duchess to Sir John, but with her eyes on 
Edith, “how the Americans hate their 
blacks? I am told that they never invite 
them to dine. Now, for my part, I should 
not consider it at all lowering to be invited 
to dine with a negro. Would you, Mrs. 
Cavendish?” 

“You may consider American negroes as 
your equal, duchess, if you like,” said Edith, 
coolly. “They are not mine.” 

The duchess colored. 

“Would you refuse to go out to dinner on 
the arm of one?” she inquired. “Surely 
you could not bring yourself to insult your 
hostess, if she had assigned him to you?” 

Edith laughed a trifle scornfully. 

“I am Southern born, madam,” she said, 
“and such an insult has never been offered 
me.” 

“ But your President dined with a negro,” 
put in the bishop. 

“I am not responsible for the acts of 
others,” said Edith. “The duchess asked 
me what I would do.” 

“This President is the first one to make 


123 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


an issue of the negro by such an act,” said 
the Duke of Strowther, speaking directly to 
Edith for the first time. “President Mc- 
Kinley always avoided forcing a crisis.” 

“And there you have the difference be- 
tween a politician and a statesman,” said 
Edith. 

“Has it, then, come to such a pass, after 
all these years, and all your boasted progress 
and civilization,” said the bishop, pompous- 
ly, “that you are not yet willing to accept 
the negro as a social equal?” 

“It has, indeed, come to such a pass,” 
said Edith, politely. “We have not yet 
reached the point where we can bear the 
stench of a field - hand at our dinner- 
tables.” 

The bishop gasped. Sir John’s hand 
closed convulsively on the damask cloth. 
He leaned back in his chair, crossed his feet 
under the table, and drew a sigh of satisfac- 
tion. Edith was off at last. Her head was 
down; the bit was between her teeth, and he 
could see the whites of her eyes. 

“I don’t quite follow you, madam,” said 
124 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


the bishop. “You refer, of course, to a 
mental — ah — quality. ’ ’ 

“When I said stench? Not at all. I 
meant a physical, unbearable, impossible 
odor,” said Edith,. clearly. 

The bishop hastily drank a glass of hock. 

“ Er — I had not heard — I did not know — ” 
he murmured. 

“You have, of course, attended a negro 
church on a reeking summer day or on a 
close night? You have been obliged to 
push your way through a crowd of typical 
negroes in a Southern State, where you see 
the negro on his native heath?” 

She put these questions directly at the 
bishop. He made no reply. 

Sir John, who had with difficulty held his 
tongue during this discussion, now broke in 
as if unable to keep silent another moment. 

“Did you ever go to a Russian church on 
Christmas night, bishop, and stand for an 
hour in the reek of the wet fur chubas of the 
moujiks? Did you ever go through the 
steerage of an emigrant ship? Would you 
ask either a moujik or a Polish Jew or a 

125 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Turk, fresh from the hold of a ten-day voy- 
age, to give you his company at a dinner- 
table such as this?” 

“All this,” said the duchess, “is beside 
the question. The negroes we have here are 
clean, well-educated, intelligent, and rich.” 

“And the negroes we have in the South 
are the direct opposite,” said Edith. “In 
the North there are a few thousands such as 
you describe. In the South are a few mill- 
ions such as I describe. So please remember 
that when you mention the word negro to a 
Southerner it does not mean the single ex- 
ample of the president of a colored college, 
but it indicates him of the ignorance, the 
depravity, and the reek of which the masses 
he knows and lives among are composed.” 

The bishop shook his head. 

“I think you are quite sincere, madam, 
but deeply prejudiced. Nothing that you 
have said causes me to regret my interest 
in the cause of the persecuted blacks.” 

“ But surely,” said Edith, leaning forward, 
“you do not take an active interest in the 
cause of the American negro when — pardon 
126 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


me — you have so many equally crying evils 
nearer home, and which are emphatically 
your own affair?” 

“I do, Mrs. Cavendish,” said the bishop. 
‘‘I hope I am broad-minded enough to in- 
terest myself in remedying injustice and 
gross iniquity wherever it is called to my 
attention.” 

“ Indeed! May I ask how you propose to 
cure this evil? We Americans have strug- 
gled with it for more than a generation.” 

The bishop was unaware of her irony. 

‘ ‘ I have written a letter of protest in the 
name of the Church of England to the Gov- 
ernor of Arkansippi, adjuring him to cease 
his horrible and inhuman custom of lynch- 
ing and burning negroes — helpless, friend- 
less black men — at the stake.” 

The bishop leaned back and folded his 
hands across his stomach. 

“Oh, well,” said Edith, easily, “the Gov- 
ernor will probably not be angry. He will 
only laugh and toss the letter aside as an- 
other instance of British impertinence.” 

A hush fell upon the company at this au- 
127 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


dacity. Edith let her eyes rest calmly on 
one after another, slowly waving her brill- 
iant fan to and fro with a hand which did 
not tremble, for all she had flung her glove 
squarely in the face of the Established 
Church. 

“The chit is plainly intoxicated,” spat- 
tered the duchess. Sir John got the full 
benefit of her remark. He carefully wiped 
his cheek before replying. 

“Her wine-glasses are just as they were, 
duchess. I have watched. She has not 
touched one of them.” 

The bishop was not offended, but he 
looked a trifle dazed. 

“But, my dear Mrs. Cavendish,” he said, 
“will not your people be pleased to learn 
the opinion of so great a nation as England — 
England who leads the world in the moral 
and religious world?” 

“Why, would England be gratified to 
learn the opinion of so great a nation as 
America — America who has made such 
strides in all directions that she came, by a 
small one-hundred-day war, to be one of the 
128 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Powers without whose consent you, none of 
you, dare act?” 

“No, certainly not!” cried the bishop, 
stung out of his usual address. “What 
does England care what America thinks?” 

Edith laughed. Sir John was clenching 
and unclenching his hand as encouragement 
to Edith to strike out. 

“We care no more than you do,” she said, 
airily. “And probably the Governor of 
Arkansippi is much too well-bred and too 
courteous a gentleman to write you any in- 
structions on how to manage your laity or 
to suggest an improvement in your church 
government.” 

“The cases are not parallel,” said the 
bishop. 

“By Jove!” cried Sir Wemyss Lombard, 
speaking for the first time, “ I think she has 
you there, bishop. The cases, to my mind, 
are quite similar.” 

“Well, England, thank God, has no such 
blot on her national escutcheon as the hor- 
rible case I read of in Arkansippi, where a 
mob composed of the best citizens of Bayou 
9 129 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Cache burned a helpless, bound negro at the 
stake,” exclaimed the bishop, with heat. 

“How about blowing helpless, bound 
men to atoms from the mouths of cannon?” 
asked Edith, in a low, clear voice, looking 
directly into the angry eyes of the bishop. 

There was a general uneasy shifting about 
the table. Everybody moved slightly. The 
women fanned themselves. The men reach- 
ed for their wine-glasses. 

“That,” said the bishop, rallying, “is an 
act which we deplore, but which, at the 
same time, was thought to be the only way 
of impressing a salutary lesson on a race of 
barbarians.” 

“You have stated our position in the 
South admirably,” said Edith. “For ex- 
actly the same reason do we perform the 
barbaric acts you deplore in us. The negro, 
who would remain contented for years in 
jail, awaiting trial or serving his sentence, 
warm, housed, and fed, shrinks in terror 
from bodily pain. But, of course,” she 
added, apologetically, “to explain these 
well-known facts to a philanthropist such 
130 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


as you is carrying coals to Newcastle. How 
long did you live in the South the last time 
you were over?” 

“The last time I was over?” repeated the 
bishop. “Over where?” 

“In America — in the South, studying 
your subject at close range; fortifying your- 
self with facts and statistics before you would 
presume to address the head of a State — as 
doubtless a man of your just and courteous 
mind would do?” 

“I — I never have been in the States at 
all,” stammered the bishop. 

“Never — I beg your pardon? I must 
have misunderstood you. I thought you 
said you wrote a letter of protest to the 
Governor of Arkansippi concerning lynch- 
ings?” said Edith. 

It was not an act countenanced by the 
best society, but the bishop actually mopped 
his brow. It was very warm. He made no 
attempt to reply, but the Southern girl had 
no intention of releasing him. She repeat- 
ed her question. The bishop glanced around 
helplessly, but no one came to his rescue. 

131 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


The faces, to his astonishment, instead of 
expressing sympathy with the predicament 
he had got himself into, showed an inclina- 
tion to mock. He was forced to reply. 

“I did,” he said. “But I was justified.” 

“May I ask what justified you?” 

“The fact that no crime could possibly 
demand so extreme a penalty as being 
burned alive,” said the bishop, with decision. 
He began to feel firm ground under his feet 
once more. He looked around for approval, 
but the others seemed to be waiting. They 
did not believe that the American had fired 
her last shot. 

Edith’s eyes flashed at this last assertion. 
It was what she had been after for the last 
quarter of an hour. She had baited the 
bishop with no little skill to drive him into 
just such an assertion. 

“No crime?” she repeated, leaning for- 
ward for the first time, and lowering her 
voice instead of raising it. “No crime, did 
you say? Are you aware that the reason 
you are so ignorant of the Southerners’ atti- 
tude on the negro question is because there 
132 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


is no way for you to inform yourself unless 
you live among them? Do you know that 
the details of the atrocities negroes commit 
on the white women are unprintable — even 
unspeakable? Do you know why we have 
no trials — why no husband, father, nor 
brother would go on the stand and testify 
to the unmentionable details of what those 
savage blacks have inflicted on their white 
dear ones? Would youV 

Her low voice held a thrill which caused a 
shiver to pass over her listeners. She 
brought the subject home to them. She 
made it personal. 

“That is our only excuse — though we 
need no excuse to those who know. That is 
our only defence — though we scorn to de- 
fend ourselves. We know that the negro, 
as a negro — not the educated few, but the 
millions of the masses — never can be trusted. 
Honest for twenty years, in the twenty-first 
they will rob and kill — yet, first of all, they 
will outrage. No woman on a lonely plan- 
tation, no unprotected female anywhere in 
the South, is safe for one hour. The shot- 
133 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


gun is always loaded ; the bell-rope is always 
at hand. That alarm means one thing. 
‘Come and bring your bloodhounds.’ And 
there is worse,” said the Southern girl, sink- 
ing her voice still lower. ‘‘If it is bad — if 
you shiver at the thought of grown women, 
who, at least, can protect themselves a little, 
what will you say to the children, not only 
young, immature girls, but two - year - old, 
white girl-babies raped, mutilated, killed, 
torn to pieces by a great, full-grown black 
man? Ah, that blanches your cheeks! 
Those things happen with us — God knows 
how often! Tell me, Sir Wemyss! — tell me, 
bishop! — tell me, Sir John! — would you, if 
that had happened to a baby in your rela- 
tionship, would you write a letter of protest 
or would you be the first to apply the torch ?” 

Verily, as Sir John said, you could not 
turn the British stomach. There were 
white faces around the table, but there was 
no disgust that such a subject had been in- 
troduced. But if there had been disgust, 
even repulsion, the British mind is so just 
and determined to see fair play that the 
134 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


first thought of the diners would have been 
that the subject had been introduced by one 
of them, and the stranger had been driven 
to defend herself and her country from an 
unwarranted attack. 

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing- 
room Edith was surprised at her reception 
there. Lady Mary Goddard came and sat 
by her, showing the greatest affability. 
Presently the Duchess of Strowther called 
across ; 

“Mary, my dear, be so good as to beg Mrs. 
Cavendish to come to us for a fortnight on 
the 2oth. We shall be having some clever 
people for you, Mrs. Cavendish, and some 
good shooting for Archie.” 

Lady Mary urged her to accept, butT^dith 
said she must consult her husband before 
promising. She knew, by the expression of 
the dowager’s face, that the invitation was 
one to be highly prized, and that she must, 
in some manner, have conquered the duch- 
ess’s prejudice. 

Mrs. O’ Gorman openly congratulated her 
on her brilliant defence from the bishop’s 

135 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


attack. Edith was amazed. She felt that 
she had been rude, guilty of bad taste, that 
she had done as she never would have dared 
to do at an American dinner-table; that she 
had been impertinent to a clergyman, and 
violently and objectionably partisan. Yet, 
in some mysterious way, her behavior had 
broken through the wall of prejudice which 
had surrounded her ever since her arrival, 
and had admitted her to the charmed circle 
of intimacy with the elect. 

Edith was so surprised she could hardly 
understand. She glanced around the room. 
Lady Munkittrick smiled at her, and Ma- 
dame des Planches beckoned Edith with 
her fan. Every face was friendly except 
the dowager's and Lady Chartersea’s. Lady 
Chartersea could not forgive Sir John’s 
wedding-present of five thousand pounds. 

When the men joined them the change 
was even more apparent. Edith was sur- 
rounded. The Duke of Strowther compli- 
mented her; Sir Wemyss Lombard, the si- 
lent, made the effort of his life and brought 
her news of her cousin Cornelia Winthrop, 
136 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


whom he had recently seen in Denver, and 
gave her the details of Lord Abernethy’s 
engagement to Patricia Marsten, a secret as 
yet from his family. They were interrupted 
by Sir John, who promptly routed Lombard, 
and, possessing himself of Edith’s fan, seated 
himself beside her, saying : 

’Pon meh soul, Edith, let me talk to you 
or I shall burst. If I drew a long breath 
the buttons of meh waistcoat would scatter 
in every direction. I want to say that I’m 
proud of you. You — you went for ’em, 
Edith. You hit ’em in the eye. You nailed 
your colors to the mast, by Jove! I — ’pon 
meh soul ! I can’t find words to tell you what 
you didn’t do. You took them all captive — 
even the bishop said you were the cleverest 
woman he had ever met, and he used to 
swear by Nora O’Gorman. And the women 
— they are buzzing like a hive of bees. 
Listen! What did I tell you? Didn’t I say 
there was only one way to do it? You’ve 
got ’em all.” 

He paused and they both glanced around 
the room, meeting nothing but friendly and 

137 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


sympathetic glances until they encountered 
the basilisk eye of the dowager, expressing 
both of him and Edith the coldest disap' 
proval. 

Sir John looked at Edith and she laughed. 

“ Wait,” he said, “even her turn will come 
at last.” 

But Edith shivered. 

“I don’t know,” she said, uneasily. “Such 
a discussion as that terrifies me, for it only 
increases the force of my intuitions. Ah, 
Sir John, for once you and I must disagree. 
I see in this affair only a personal triumph — 
the triumph of a good gown and the British 
admiration of courage and daring — and that I 
have succeeded , in spite of being an American , 
only shows that even British stubbornness 
can be overcome in individual cases by tact 
and decision of character. But what sinks the 
more deeply into my heart is this — the hos- 
tility, simply more or less veiled according 
to the company one is in, which England 
feels towards America. It is jealousy, pure 
and simple. Before the Spanish war it was 
contempt. You ignored us. Now it has risen 

138 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


a degree, and you are jealous of us. Your 
dislike of America is different from the dis- 
like you feel towards any other country, for 
we once belonged to you, and you can’t for- 
get it. Our progress galls you. Your national 
greediness causes you constant twinges of 
regret to think you ever allowed us to get 
away from you. It crops out in your poli- 
tics every little while, from the Alabama 
affair, which cost you sixteen million dol- 
lars to disavow, to your absurd coalition 
with your hereditary foe, Germany, on the 
Venezuelan question. And why? Simply 
to attack the Monroe Doctrine — to force us 
either to repudiate it or embroil us in a war. 
Little things like these show the wheels 
within wheels, and while your masses and 
our masses never see the real reason, the 
statesmen do. Ah, no. Never try to make 
me believe that England and America are na- 
tional friends. Natural allies, if you please, 
for England would protect us against every 
nation except herself. And because I believe 
this I take no comfort out of my small tri- 
umph to-night . I feel a presentiment of evil. ’ ’ 

139 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Nonsense,” said Sir John. “You are 
just nervous and overwrought. Why, what 
evil can befall us now?” 

“I hope it is only that, but — there is a 
shadow over this house. I have felt it ever 
since I came.” 

Madame des Planches beckoned again, 
and Edith got up and trailed across the 
floor in her wonderful flame-colored gown, 
little dreaming how soon her fears were to be 
realized. 


Chapter IX 


T his house-party at Cawdor had hither- 
to rather bored Edith. She saw noth- 
ing manly nor ennobling in killing more 
birds than one could eat, and gloating over 
the numbers slaughtered. She hated the 
exertion of following the men to see the 
sport over fields of stubble which scratched 
her boots and wounded her ankles, unac- 
customed as her feet were to rough walking. 
Even luncheon with the sportsmen palled 
after the first day or two. She was pleased 
with the novelty of it while it lasted, but 
that was all. Edith disliked whatever was 
unbecoming, and rather than make a guy 
of herself, as Tessie and Lady Munkit- 
trick did in their shooting - clothes, she 
would have stayed at Fernleigh and given 
up Scotland altogether. But she was told 
that this was mere play compared to the 
141 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


discomforts of deer-stalking, and Tessie even 
essayed that. 

But after the affair of the encounter with 
the bishop, in conjunction with the flame- 
colored gown, Edith fared better. The 
duchess found room in the carriage to ask 
Edith to drive with her instead of walking 
with the others. The American was no 
longer patronized nor ignored. By some 
mysterious alchemy she found herself one 
of them, and the effect was very soothing 
to her tingling nerves. 

Cawdor lies in one of the loveliest regions 
of Scotland, and Edith was fond of wander- 
ing off by herself to explore. The dowager, 
whose disapproval of Edith hitherto had 
been largely an incidental, inherited sort of 
feeling, just as she disliked Dissenters and 
Germans at sight and not for any personal 
or specific reason, now suddenly developed 
into an enemy. She discovered that Edith 
bade fair to become a factor in the life of the 
Mayhew family. The fear even took shape 
that she might become a power to be dread- 
ed, and the dowager had ruled too long not to 
142 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


guard her prerogatives with a jealous care. 
She saw Mayhew and Tessie pass from a 
toleration of the interloper to a genuine lik- 
ing, not unmixed with a strong respect for 
her courage. And in the atmosphere of ap- 
proval which now surrounded her, even the 
dowager could not fail to see that Edith’s 
loveliness was developing into a glorious 
beauty which could not be ignored by the 
most stubborn, and which was an added 
threat. 

The dowager, however, was incapable of 
wishing Edith any bodily harm, but she was 
in the state of mind to feel that if any ca- 
lamity befell her from an outside cause 
she could be resigned to it, and so her con- 
science was clear. 

Archie had frequently cautioned Edith 
about venturing too far or in an unknown 
direction, warning her that she never knew 
where the guns might be straying, and Edith 
promised to be careful. 

The dowager, listening, found that she 
considered these warnings entirely super- 
fluous and indicative of a pampering care of 


143 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


his wife which she very much disliked to see 
in an independent Englishman. Was not 
Edith a grown woman, and was she not 
more than able to take care of herself, both 
physically and mentally? It gave the dow- 
ager some satisfaction to see that these ad- 
monitions sat lightly upon Edith’s mind, 
and that she continued her rambles. 

It would have shocked the dowager if any 
one had whispered to her that evil was grow- 
ing in her heart to such an extent that she 
hoped Edith would come to some harm. 
She was not analytical. She was English. 
Therefore she found herself watching the di- 
rection the men took every morning, listen- 
ing to the head-keeper’s suggestions, and 
then covertly keeping an eye on Edith until 
she started for her walk. The dowager 
never disturbed her mental poise by inquir- 
ing why she did this. She seldom exam- 
ined into psychological enigmas, and there- 
fore saved her brain much exercise. 

But Edith continued to come and go in 
safety, and the dowager had all but lost — not 
hope, but perhaps her vigilance had some- 
144 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


what relaxed, when one day, about noon, 
she saw Mayhew hurrying back with one of 
the keepers. The day was enormously hot, 
and the exertion had made Mayhew’s face 
purple. 

“Where is Edith?” he gasped, as the dow- 
ager came hurrying down to meet him, 
every feature alert with hope. 

“I don’t know.” 

“I forgot to tell her — all of you — not to 
cross the lower meadow to-day, for McDon- 
ald told me that the old bull escaped last 
night and no one knows where he is. He is 
as dangerous as a tiger, and if Edith — ” 

He paused, panting horribly for breath. 

“Mayhew, don’t excite yourself!” cried 
Mrs. O’Gorman. “Sit down for a moment 
and I will look. I think Edith went another 
way.” 

“She had on a red dress, Nora,” mur- 
mured Lady Munkittrick, following her. 

Mayhew had sunk into a chair, tearing at 
his collar, but, roused by a scream from the 
women, he dashed his mother aside and ran 
out. 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


The ladies of the party were streaming out 
across the lawn, waving their hands and 
shouting at a figure crossing the lower mead- 
ow, which sloped towards a strip of woods. 
Edith heard them and waved in reply. Then 
suddenly she understood, for an angry bel- 
low came from behind her. She gave one 
look and began to run, but it seemed as if 
the house were a mile away. 

May hew snatched a gun from the keeper 
and ran towards her, but, try as he might, 
Edith kept in a line between him and the 
maddened bull and he dared not shoot. 

Suddenly Mayhew staggered and fell. A 
moment later a shot from the keeper’s gun 
rang out and the bull sank to his knees. 

But Edith no longer thought of her own 
danger. Without even looking behind her, 
she reached Mayhew first and attempted to 
lift him. Her screams told the others before 
they could get to him what had happened. 

Geoffrey Cavendish was dead, and his 
brother Archibald was Earl of Mayhew. 


Chapter X 


E DITH’S condition immediately became 
so precarious that they told her a lie. 
They told her that Mayhew had only fainted 
and would recover, and by that means alone 
they saved her life on that first awful night 
after the tragedy. 

The guests melted away from Cawdor as 
if by magic. For days not a sound was al- 
lowed to come to Edith’s room but the 
footfalls of the nurses and her husband, who 
hovered over her in heart-broken anxiety. 

During that trying time came the test and 
proof of Archie’s devotion. His grief was 
pitiable. Hour after hour he knelt at her 
bedside, watching for a sign of life, and when 
urged, for his own sake, to leave her for a 
breath of air, he tramped up and down the 
corridor outside of her door, listening for a 

147 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


word of encouragement or even a look of 
hope on the face of nurse or doctor. 

The Charterseas had refused to leave, and 
Sir John’s ruddy face grew haggard with 
anxiety, for on Edith’s will-power alone de- 
pended not only her life, but the hope of the 
long-expected heir to the earldom of May- 
hew. 

The funeral took place and still Edith did 
not know. The only words she ever whis- 
pered were to ask news of Mayhew. He 
was getting better — he was able to sit up — 
he had eaten well — he slept more comfort- 
ably — all these and other bulletins, which 
soothed Edith, were told her by her nurses 
under the doctor’s express orders. False 
charts were even made out and shown her 
to quiet the questioning looks in her eyes as 
she listened to all they said and mentally 
disbelieved them. Still she was far from 
believing the dreadful truth. She simply 
thought he was worse than they dared tell 
her. 

One day she whispered Sir John’s name, 
and the old man, with tears raining down his 
148 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


face, came and knelt for a moment beside 
her bed. She was too weak to speak, nor 
did he. He only kissed one pale hand as it 
lay outside the coverlid. She smiled and 
made an effort to lift her face to his. 

“May I?” he whispered. 

She nodded her head slightly, and he 
kissed her with trembling lips, then scram- 
bled to his feet and left the room on shaking 
legs. 

“She kissed me, Archie!” he whispered, 
ecstatically. “She offered of her own ac- 
cord. She did it to comfort me. She knew 
meh old heart must be almost broken. 
Nurse,” he cried, catching the woman’s 
hand, “don’t let my visit hurt her! She 
only sent for me for my sake — because she 
knew I was half crazy. Don’t let her kind- 
ness kill her, will you, nurse? Jove, Archie! 
Always thinking of the happiness of others 
before her own! What did she care about 
being scratched by my old prickly mustache 
on her soft little mouth? But she knew I’d 
remember it in meh coffin. God bless her! 
Archie, if it’s a boy, he is meh heir. Remem- 
149 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


ber that. He gets all I have except Lady 
Chartersea’s third. Do you think I don’t 
appreciate the fight that little girl is making 
for the child’s life? Gad, Archie! It’s in 
her eyes. The devil himself has not her de- 
termination. She is holding onto life by 
sheer will-power, and her boy gets all I have. 
By the Lord Harry, he gets it even if he is a 
girl! D’ye hear? Edith sha’n’t be cheated 
of her reward even if it’s a girl. I’ll change 
meh will this very day. God bless meh soul ! 
What was I thinking of to make it contingent 
upon the child’s being a boy? Archie, old 
man, cheer up ! She’s going to pull through. 
The nurses say so and the doctors say so. 
By Jove, and, sick as she was, to think of 
her kissing the old man!” 

The days slipped into weeks, and the 
weeks into months, and still Edith lingered 
on the border-land. The shock had been so 
great, and the hopes of her recovery meant 
so much, that they took no risks. 

From her bed she watched the leaves red- 
den and fall, and the distant blue hills turn 
white with frost and snow. Still she had 

150 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


seen no one except her husband, and on rare 
occasions Sir John. 

The dowager fretted and fumed. Was 
Sir John to be allowed privileges which she 
did not enjoy? She considered all this fuss 
made over Edith’s condition pure nonsense. 
Nobody had ever fussed so over her before 
her children were born, nor over Tessie. She 
firmly believed that Edith was largely sham- 
ming in order to keep up the excitement. 
She did not believe in coddling the sick. She 
did not approve of Edith’s being kept in 
ignorance of Mayhew’s death. But for her 
inexcusable carelessness he would not have 
died. He would be alive to-day. His death 
lay at Edith’s door, and as soon as she saw 
her she meant to tell her so. The dow- 
ager was not one to shirk an unpleasant 
duty. What if it did hurt Edith to know 
the truth? It was right to grieve for the 
dead. Then let her grieve. It wouldn’t 
kill her to shed a few tears for poor May- 
hew. 

The more Sir John talked of Edith’s kind- 
ness in sending for him, the more injured 

151 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


the dowager became. Lady Chartersea, al- 
ways attentive, helped matters along. 

“Has she sent for you yet, dear Lady 
Mayhew?” she said. 

“Not yet,” said the dowager. “Prob- 
ably she does not want to disturb me. Some 
people cannot bear a sick-room, and Edith 
was always considerate, but some time soon 
I shall just slip in for a moment without con- 
sulting her.” 

“It would only be kind, I think,” said 
Lady Chartersea. 

After that the dowager watched her op- 
portunity, and one afternoon when both 
Sir John and Archie had gone for a walk, 
the nurse left the room for a moment, 
and in an instant the dowager had enter- 
ed it. 

The great chamber was strangely silent. 
Edith, with her face the color of the pillows, 
lay in the canopied bed, her thin features 
sharply outlined against the whiteness. Her 
eyes were closed, and only the ticking of the 
clock and the crackling of the fire made any 
sound, but at the noise of the dowager’s 

152 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


stiff crape rustling across the floor, Edith 
opened her eyes. 

When Sir John and Archie entered the 
house, an hour later, an air of confusion pre- 
vailed. A mounted groom dashed past the 
library windows. Doors opened and closed. 
The nurses were hurrying to and fro giving 
orders to the frightened servants, and the 
dowager was nowhere to be seen. 

Suddenly shriek after shriek rang through 
the great house. Sir John, forgetting the 
doctor’s orders, dashed up -stairs on the 
heels of Archie, who leaped four steps at a 
time. 

“What has happened? Is Lady May- 
hew worse?’’ cried Archie of an agitated 
nurse. She hesitated to reply and looked 
appealingly at Sir John. 

“Out with it, woman!’’ he cried. “Tell 
us the whole truth.’’ 

“The dowager countess, my lord, went 
into Lady Mayhew’s room in my absence 
and told Lady Mayhew that the earl was 
dead, and that his death lay at her door.’’ 

153 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“And Edith — ’’ gasped Archie. “My 
wife — “ 

“Lady May hew is delirious, my lord. We 
have sent for Dr. Paisley. I think I hear 
him now.” 

The nurse hurried away, terrified at her 
daring. Sir John pulled Archie into a room 
across the corridor from Edith’s room, where 
they could watch for the doctor. 

At first neither spoke. Archie strode up 
and down, his face white with the terrible 
anger of the silent man. The sobs and 
shrieks from the sick-room came muffled to 
their ears, but the sounds fell upon raw 
nerves. Finally Archie spoke. 

“Sir John, I believe this is the end. My 
mother has killed my wife.” 

Sir John looked up with quivering lips, 
clenching and unclenching his hands. Then 
his composure gave way, and he flung his 
arms on the table, sobbing like a child. 

“That damned old woman!” he muttered, 
through his tears. “She has hated Edith 
from the first — before the first! She hated 
her before she ever saw her. And now she 

154 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


has killed both your wife and your son. If 
she has, if Edith dies, I’ll murder the old 
she-devil with meh own hands, if I swing for 
it. But I won’t be here to see it. I sha’n’t 
live through this. It will kill me, too.” 

Sir John had never broken down before, 
and Archie was doubly alarmed. Even 
when his father. Sir John’s best friend, had 
died. Sir John’s grief had been under the 
control of his iron will, but at the sound of 
Edith’s mental agony, the old man cast 
pride and self-control to the winds and gave 
up to the luxury of his grief. 

When the doctor came the dowager en- 
tered the room where Sir John and Archie 
still watched. 

“Is Edith much worse? Can I do any- 
thing?” she said. 

Her son turned and faced her with blazing 
eyes. 

“ Leave this room, mother, and never dare 
to show yourself to me again while we are 
under this roof. If my wife dies, I never 
wish to look upon your face again.” 

Some women would have remonstrated, 
155 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


but the dowager knew better than to brave 
the white wrath in the countenances of the 
two nien. She turned without a word, but 
she made a gesture of despair. Her only- 
emotion was that of mortification that she 
could have made such a mistake. She had 
a poor opinion of the fragile constitutions of 
American women, and of Edith’s in particu- 
lar. It was unpleasant for the time being, 
but if Edith and her baby died, Archie would 
marry again — men are all alike — and this 
time it would probably be an English girl. 
The dowager did not believe that the Lord 
she had worshipped for sixty years would so 
afflict her as to give her another foreign 
daughter-in-law. In the mean time, her 
policy would be to make herself as small, 
as unobtrusive, and as deferential as pos- 
sible. 

It seemed to the anxious watchers that the 
doctor never would make his reappearance. 
He had been in there so long. 

When he finally came, the gravity of his 
face confirmed their worst fears. Archie 
could not speak. 

156 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“What is it, doctor?” stammered Sir John. 

“Lady Mayhew is prematurely ill,” he 
said, “and I have wired to London for Sir 
William and Dr. Lockholtz. The case is too 
serious for me to undertake alone.” 

“Is there any hope?” 

“I will not deceive you. There is but a 
slight one. My main reliance hitherto has 
been in Lady Mayhew’s iron will. She was 
determined to recover and bear her child. I 
never saw so brave a fight made by any 
woman in the whole course of my profession- 
al career. But — pardon me, Lord Mayhew! 
— the shock she received to - day by your 
mother’s accidentally revealing to her, by 
her mourning garments, the fact of your 
brother’s death, which we have so carefully 
endeavored to conceal from Lady Mayhew, 
has induced so violent a fever that she is de- 
lirious, and thus my hope of her assistance 
is cut off. I wanted to ask something. In 
case — ” 

The doctor hesitated and looked earnestly 
into the drawn faces of the two men who 
hung upon his words. 

157 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

“Go on!” said Archie. “Ask anything.” 

“In case we cannot save both lives — ” 

“My God, doctor!” burst from the young- 
er man’s lips. “My God, can you ask? 
Save my wife at the cost of everything.” 

“I only thought,” murmured the doctor, 
‘ ‘ that in case of an heir — when so much de- 
pends — ” 

“In case of a hundred heirs,” cried Sir 
John, “save that girl! Don’t let her die, 
doctor. Don’t let her slip away.” 

“ I have by no means given up hope,” an- 
swered the doctor. “If we can reduce this 
fever and remove the hallucinations which 
cause her such grief — ” 

“What hallucinations? What does she 
say?” asked Sir John. 

As the doctor again hesitated, Mayhew 
broke in, commandingly ; 

“Pray be frank. Be quite open with us, 
doctor, if you wish us to understand the full 
gravity of the case. A reticence out of a 
mistaken sense of delicacy is no kindness to 
men in our condition of anxiety.” 

The doctor bowed and proceeded: 

158 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 

“Lady Mayhew merely exhibits the rav- 
ings of a disordered brain. The shock of 
seeing the dowager countess in such deep 
mourning — quite accidental it was on the 
dowager’s part: I fully understand that — 
naturally upset Lady Mayhew. She raves 
that the earl’s death lies at her door — that 
it is all her fault — that but for her he would 
be alive to-day; and — the most unfortunate 
turn of all — that both the dowager countess, 
your mother, Lord Mayhew, and the Dow- 
ager Countess Theresa, think that your wife 
purposely exposed herself to danger in the 
late earl’s sight to induce him to an exer- 
tion certain to cause his death, in order that 
you might inherit the title. A most deplo- 
rable hallucination. A most unfortunate 
mistake; but you commanded me to be 
frank. Lord Mayhew, in order that you 
might better understand the difficulties we 
must work under. Believe me, this casts no 
aspersions on your mother’s kindly visit to 
the sick-room. Lady Mayhew heard none 
of these things from the dowager countess. 
They are but the fancies of a brain disor-* 
IS9 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


dered by a terrible shock, which her weak 
system was in no condition to withstand.” 

“Thank you, Dr. Paisley,” said Archie, 
as the doctor rose. “Thank you, especially 
for your frankness. It enables me to un- 
derstand the peculiar conditions Lady May- 
hew must fight under. Could I see her? 
Just for a moment?” 

“Not now. It would be most unwise. 
The first moment she sleeps you shall be 
called, but l^t me warn you to expect a great 
change in her appearance. Her beautiful 
hair has been sacrificed at last. The nurses 
tried to save it, for it was so magnificent, 
but I dared not consent. You will exercise 
the greatest self-control, I am sure.” 

“You may be sure,” said the young man, 
pressing the doctor’s hand. He forbore to 
look at Sir John, and, when the doctor had 
returned to the sick-room, he walked to the 
window. 

Presently he turned, but his face was so 
changed that Sir John started. 

“The doctors will be here early in the 
morning. Sir John. I shall meet them at 
i6o 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


the station and tell them the truth,” he 
said. 

“No, Archie,” said Sir John, laying a 
trembling, eager hand on Mayhew’s arm; 
“that is not for one of the Cavendish blood. 
Leave it to me. I am not a relative. Spare 
yourself the shame of it, meh boy. I will be 
just.” 

“It is because of the shame of it that I 
must speak,” said Mayhew. “The Caven- 
dish blood must bear the Cavendish shame. 
It is like you to offer, brave old friend, but I 
will not shirk. I have not always protected 
my wife from my mother as I should, but 
she never complained, and often I did not 
see. Let me make what amends I may. 
She may not be with us long, and it will les- 
sen, in some slight degree, my self-reproach. 
While, if she lives — my God in heaven. Sir 
John, if that brave, unselfish spirit lives — 
I — I shall have learned to appreciate her!” 

Sir John wrung the younger man’s hand 
in a silence he could not break. But words 
were not necessary. Sir John had always 
understood, and Mayhew understood at last. 

II i6i 


Chapter XI 


A TINY, tiny bundle, wrapped in fleecy 
white, which never could be placed out 
of sight of two large, mournful eyes in the 
canopied bed. Two wistful eyes, above 
cheek-bones over which the skin was drawn 
with painful sharpness. The nose, pinched 
and white with a woman’s mortal agony; 
those transparent hands lying so still above 
the counterpane, the finger-tips shrivelled 
and bloodless, and the frail body, which 
scarcely showed the outlines of a human 
figure — these were all that remained of the 
spirited creature who had come so blithely 
to Cawdor four months ago. 

But in those eyes the vital spark burned — 
the spark of determination which seemed to 
be all which held life in that fragile body in 
its white wrappings. The young mother 
had but one thought, waking or sleeping, 
162 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 

and that was to keep the frail lamp of life 
burning in her tiny son until she was strong 
enough to hold him in her arms. After that 
— when once her arms could close around 
him and clasp him close, close to his mother’s 
breast, and she would ask no further favors 
of fate! Live? He must live. Had she 
not all but given her life for his? Had she 
not fought death, inch by inch, through 
many weary months, and was she one to 
give up the fight in the moment of victory? 
Had her duty but even begun? Was she not 
responsible for his premature appearance, 
and was it not her fault that he had entered 
the bitter, weary struggle of life equipped 
with only a portion of his rightful strength 
and vigor? Had not every other child a bet- 
ter chance than he ? And was it not her duty 
to give to him every thought of her brain, ev- 
ery beat of her heart, every ache of her long- 
ing arms until she had made up to him for his 
life’s handicap? Oh, the anguish of her eyes 
when she thought of all this, and then re- 
alized her mortal weakness 1 Oh, health, 
make haste! Oh, strength, come swiftly! 

163 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


But in spite of her impatience, day after 
day crawling slowly by brought a little 
added vigor, and her baby, in spite of anx- 
ious faces and sinking hearts, clung feebly 
to life and turned his little face less and less 
reluctantly to the long, hard journey before 
him. And, day by day, the wanness began 
to leave his mother’s cheeks, and the color 
drifted into her pale lips, and the light of 
hope and of a deathless vow of love and con- 
stancy glowed more and more brightly in 
the sombre depths of her yearning eyes. 

And through it all her husband lay like a 
faithful dog at her door. He refused to go 
to his rooms, but slept, fully dressed and 
rolled in a blanket, on a couch in the corri- 
dor, and, hour after hour, he waked and lis- 
tened and held his breath for a sound from 
her sick-room. 

Those were heart-breaking days for Archie 
Cavendish, but they were soul-building, and 
his young wife need have no fear that all her 
anguish had been a wasted effort, for the 
new Earl of Mayhew awoke to hope, after 
days of despair and nights of bitter remorse 
164 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


— a new man with a new purpose and a new 
aim in life. 

As for Sir John, his pulse fluctuated with 
Edith’s. When she began to mend, straight- 
way the old man dismissed his doctor and 
grew more fiercely irritable towards his wife. 
These were unmistakable signs of return- 
ing health, and, with the first indications 
of spring, Sir John tramped up and down 
beneath Edith’s windows, a rejuvenated 
man. 

Then came the great day when Edith 
could sit up, and the still greater day when 
she could be dressed and lifted to a chair, 
and the greatest day of all when she bade 
good-bye to Cawdor. 

During all Edith’s illness, Tessie had shown 
herself in her noblest guise. Freed forever 
from the dictatorial influence of her hus- 
band, who, though a good enough husband 
after his kind, had been one of the sort who 
treated his wife as something between a 
child to be instructed and a block of wood 
which could feel neither pain nor pleasure, 
she found, for the first time, from Archie’s 

165 




THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


treatment of herself, what Edith’s influence 
had done for a Cavendish. 

When Edith became well enough to talk, 
she and Tessie had many hours together, in 
which Edith’s remorse and bitter grief for 
Mayhew’s death were somewhat lessened by 
knowledge of the fact that they exceeded 
the emotion of the widow herself, and Tessie 
heroically endeavored to lighten the burden 
which Edith had assumed for a death which 
left Tessie almost dependent upon Archie’s 
bounty. 

But in this Tessie was again fortunate, 
for, after a consultation with his wife, Archie 
settled Fernleigh, which was his own per- 
sonal property, on Tessie and her children, 
and a suitable income to maintain herself as 
befitted her rank. Five thousand pounds 
a year to Tessie, who had never known what 
it was to have money of her own, appeared 
a princely sum, and, crediting this as much 
to Edith as to Archie, in a burst of gratitude 
Tessie named both her girl babies after her 
sister-in-law, one to be called Edith and the 
other Joyce. 


i66 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Edith was deeply touched by this act of 
Tessie’s, for it showed, more than anything 
else could have done, how completely she 
had become a member of the family — at 
last, but, as might have been expected, it 
put the dowager into one of her towering fits 
of rage. 

The dowager had long ago gone back to 
Mintern Court. She left Cawdor without a 
word to her son, with the laudable idea that, 
as possession was nine points of the law, to 
be established at Mintern would at least in- 
crease the difficulty of dislodging her. 

But in this she had counted on Edith’s 
oft -tested forbearance, and on the son 
Archibald she knew. She was quite unpre- 
pared, therefore, for the peremptory letter 
from the new Archibald who was Earl of 
Mayhew, bidding her remove at once to 
Dower House, and have Mintern prepared 
for the reception of Edith and her son. 

The dowager almost swooned when she 
read this letter. Dower House, compared to 
Mintern Court, was as a cottage to a pal- 
ace. In addition to this, it was in a most 
167 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

remote and inaccessible spot in the north of 
England, a full day’s journey from Mintern 
and Arlesworth, and almost out of the world, 
as far as London was concerned. If only 
Archie had said Fernleigh — Fernleigh, which 
was only a few hours drive from both Lady 
Chart ersea and Edith, and where she could 
so easily get at them both. She so far forgot 
her pride as to write a most humble letter to 
Archie, calling him “Mayhew” for the first 
time, and begging to be sent to Fernleigh 
instead of exiled to Dower House. But, to 
Archie, this suggestion added insult to in- 
jury. He regarded it as sacrilege that his 
mother, the author of all his undoing, should 
suggest living in the house of his honey- 
moon, and he wrote back a letter full of 
grim rejoicing that it lay in his power, as Earl 
of Mayhew and head of the house of Caven- 
dish, to remove his tormentor forever from 
his path and the path of his wife, all too 
thorny hitherto, but which henceforth, by 
the grace of God, he meant to strew with 
nothing more difficult than rose-leaves for 
her tender feet to press upon. 

i68 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


At first this letter put the dowager in such 
a rage that the girls and poor Inchworthy 
fled in terror and locked the school-room 
door, but the dowager was a woman of re- 
sources, and, after a second and third reading, 
the comforting thought occurred to her that 
her main reliance lay, after all, in Edith. 
This letter was a man’s first indignant pro- 
test and futile attempt at revenge. A wom- 
an’s influence should be brought to bear 
upon him, and Edith’s intervention would 
soften him. 

To this end the dowager bestirred herself, 
and Mintern Court was freshened, smart- 
ened, and decorated with flowers as if for 
the return of a conquering hero. Fortu- 
nately she dared not attempt any such 
changes as she had indulged her riotous 
fancy in at Femleigh, but, what with arches 
over the gates and such outer decorations 
and signs of rejoicing as she dared essay, 
Mintern was decked suitably to receive its 
first heir, the long-expected heir. Viscount 
Roxbridge, who restored riches and afflu- 
ence to the house of Cavendish. 

169 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Nor did she make any move towards leav- 
ing Mintern, beyond giving orders to have 
Dower House opened and prepared for her 
coming. She and the girls removed to a 
wing of the house not often used except in 
cases of large house-parties, and remained in 
order to give Edith a suitable welcome. She 
hoped, by her modest, deferential, and un- 
obtrusive behavior, to be allowed to stay on, 
perhaps only on sufferance at first, but after- 
wards as a fixture too firmly established to 
dislodge. 

So it came to pass, through the despicable 
motive of sycophancy, that the welcome 
the American girl had hoped for herself on 
her arrival as a bride was offered to her on 
her arrival as a mother, and to her little son, 
whom she had held in her arms during the 
drive from the railway station, except when 
her husband took him from her, in response 
to the shouts of the people for the young 
viscount, and held him up to be seen. But 
even at those exciting moments, when the 
shouts were loudest and caps were thrown 
highest into the air, Edith’s eyes were riv- 
170 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


eted hungrily on the laces of the little, soft, 
white bundle, which were all that could be 
seen of the Mayhew heir, until the precious 
morsel was again placed in her arms. Her 
pale, thin face, looking so small under her 
great velvet hat, and her head covered over 
with short, curling rings of hair, but, most 
of all, her eager, yearning, jealous eyes, 
moved the people to the intensest feeling. 
Simple as they were, rude and unlettered, 
cottagers and tenants, poor in this world’s 
goods, yet most of them were rich in the ex- 
perience of motherhood and fatherhood, and 
they understood the silent message of suf- 
fering in young Lady Mayhew’s altered ap- 
pearance. Tears sprang to women’s eyes, 
and men turned aside with gruff words to 
hide a certain quiver of the throat which 
they felt was an unmanly sign of feeling in a 
free-born Briton. 

The illness of young Lady Mayhew had 
done wonders, too, in cementing the friend- 
ships she had begun to form at Cawdor. The 
friendliest of letters and telegrams poured in 
upon her with congratulations upon her re- 
171 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


turn to Mintem, which seemed heartfelt. 
The costliest presents were showered upon 
the young heir, and, with each sign of good- 
will, his mother’s step grew lighter and her 
pale cheeks took on a more healthful tinge. 
By such subtle signs as these, which would 
have gone unnoticed by her husband six 
months ago, he now, with his sharpened per- 
ceptions, realized that much of his wife’s ill- 
ness had been mental, and he felt, with an 
anguish which was like physical pain, that 
if Edith had been made happier in her brief 
married life, much of her physical agony 
might have been spared her. 

He said nothing when he found his mother 
and sisters still at Mintern, being apparently 
disarmed by her cordial assurances that she 
had only remained to give them a suitable 
welcome. Nor did Edith complain. They 
both submitted to the dowager’s superin- 
tendence of the rejoicing of the tenants, the 
school-feast, and the hundred-and-one small 
ceremonials which she had arranged for, all 
of which Edith would have gone wild over 
if they had occurred a year ago. 

172 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


When, however, they were all over, and 
their life had returned to its routine, the dow- 
ager still made no move to go. The Bishop 
of Ardsley had so far forgiven the American 
girl that he wrote her a most charming let- 
ter of congratulation, and, begging that she 
bore him no grudge, hoped to be allowed 
to perform the ceremony of christening. 

When Edith acquiesced to this arrange- 
ment, the dowager announced her deter- 
mination to remain for the christening, and 
was for delaying the ceremony for another 
month or so, urging “the baby’s feebleness.’’ 
But at her use of that word Edith’s gray 
eyes blazed black, and, although she said 
nothing, her husband saw her emotion and 
resolved to act accordingly. He was no 
longer deceived in mistaking her self-control 
for apathy, and the day was set according to 
her wishes for the baby’s four months’ an- 
niversary, which would fall on a Sunday in 
about a fortnight’s time. 

The invitations were limited, as, indeed, 
the strength of both mother and child had 
to be considered. 


173 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


When Tessie came, Edith said to her: 

“Dearest sister, I want to ask if you will 
be one of the godmothers of my boy, and let 
us give him Geoffrey’s name. If he grows 
up with the thought before him that he is 
named for a noble English gentleman, who, 
knowing his own danger, gave his life, sim- 
ply and bravely, for that of a woman, dying 
at his post, in the discharge of his duty, as a 
brave soldier must, my boy need have no 
more glorious example of the duty of a man 
and a gentleman.” 

And at this, Tessie, who had never thought 
of her husband’s death in this light before, 
fell on her knees at Edith’s side and sobbed 
piteously, beginning, perhaps, for the first 
time to understand that side of poor May- 
hew’s character. 

“You shall hold the baby, too,” Edith 
went on. “I want — oh, Tessie, dear — I 
want to do everything for you that I can! 
You need never give a thought to your chil- 
dren’s future. We will attend to that.” 

And Tessie, unaccustomed to such, or, in- 
deed, any consideration whatsoever, only 

174 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


sobbed for answer, being unable to speak 
for her tears of pride and gratitude, for the 
Duchess of Strowther, the other godmother, 
had actually begged permission to hold the 
child, but Edith had written to say that that 
honor had been reserved for the widow of 
the man to whom both she and her boy 
owed their life. 

So, on a sunny morning late in May, the 
chapel at Mintern was turned into a bower 
of spring loveliness, and the American girl, 
with her trembling hand hidden in her hus- 
band’s, and her breath coming pantingly 
from between her parted lips, witnessed the 
lovely ceremony which gave the name of 
Geoffrey Alleyn Chartersea Cavendish to the 
new Viscount Roxbridge. 

But oh, the baby lay so still, so still in 
Tessie’s arms ! If only he had cried, or struck 
out with his little fists as other and stronger 
children do. But there was no movement 
beneath the priceless laces which swept 
downward over Tessie’s crape-laden gown, 
not even one feeble cry to disturb the still- 
ness which grew horrible to his mother and 
175 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


pounded on her ears as if she had heard the 
roaring of cannon. She would have started 
up from her seat to go to him and make 
sure he was alive, if her husband, who was 
watching her with the keenest anxiety, had 
not quieted her with a firm, controlled press- 
ure of her frail hand, held so closely in his 
own. 

Sir John, who was one of the godfathers, 
a member of the royal family being the 
other, openly wiped his eyes during the cere- 
mony, nor cared who saw him. 

Finally it was all over, luncheon had been 
presided over by the dowager, and the 
guests had all departed with the exception 
of the Charterseas. 

As the Duke and Duchess of Strowther, 
with Lady Mary, were journeying back by 
the afternoon train to Coomb Abbey, the 
duchess was strangely silent. The duke 
dosed in his corner of the railway carriage, 
and Lady Mary’s beautiful face had a wist- 
ful expression which her mother noticed. 

“I am seldom touched by anything — I 
won’t allow myself to be,” said the duchess, 
176 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


at last, “but I own to a most queer and un- 
comfortable feeling. I — upon my word — I 
don’t know what to make of Edith’s face.” 

“I am afraid she is going to die,” said 
Lady Mary, gently. 

“What’s that?” said her father, opening 
his eyes. “Edith Cavendish die? You 
never were more mistaken in your life. If 
ever I saw a deathless determination to live 
and care for her boy, I saw it in that brave 
woman’s eyes to-day. It made my old 
heart thump to see such a mother-look in a 
girl’s face. And such will-power! I’ll tell 
you what it put me in mind of. It made me 
understand something of what John Char- 
tersea is forever dinning in my ears about 
the spirit of the Americans. He says you 
can’t beat ’em, and if Edith Cavendish is a 
fair example. I’ll swear I more than half be- 
lieve him.” 

After this unexpected speech, the duke 
pulled his travelling-cap over his eyes and 
composed himself to sleep, satisfied, after 
the manner of English husbands, in having 
said everything that was essential to the en- 
12 177 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


tire subject and having done all the think- 
ing for his womankind. 

Lady Mary, feeling that this softened 
mood of her mother’s indicated an occasion 
too auspicious to be let slip, shyly laid her 
hand in the duchess’s purple glove and said, 
softly : 

“Did you know that Wemyss had per- 
suaded his uncle Padelford to go into the 
great 011a Mining Company which Aber- 
nethy has organized, and that — ’’ 

The duchess looked at her daughter out 
of her shrewd little, green eyes. 

“ Have you seen the Times this morning?” 
she asked. 

“No,” said Lady Mary, in terror ; “what 
does it say?” 

“That James Padelford has had another 
stroke of paralysis, and is not expected to 
live the day out.” 

Lady Mary’s lovely face flushed crimson. 
Sir Wemyss Lombard, her lover, was James 
Padelford’s heir. 

“Oh, mother,” she whispered, “ I don’t dare 
to speak for fear of saying the wrong thing.” 
178 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


The duchess turned her hard, old face 
towards her daughter. 

“Never mind, Mary. I hope I am shrewd 
enough to learn my lesson whenever I see 
it, and rather than stamp the look on your 
face that Marcia Cavendish has stamped on 
Edith’s, I will let you marry Wemyss Lom- 
bard whether Padelford dies or not.” 

Lady Mary, after a moment of speechless 
surprise, flung her arms around her mother’s 
neck like any milkmaid. 

“Oh, mother, dear,” she whispered. 

“It won’t be considered a brilliant nor 
even a suitable match,” grumbled the duch- 
ess, taking her purple satin bonnet-string 
out of her mouth, where her daughter’s em- 
brace had crushed it, “but you care so 
much, your looks seem to be going, so that 
I don’t know if you could do any better.” 

It was ungracious, but the girl was too de- 
lighted to stick at trifles. 

“ He is sure to be rich in a few years,” she 
said, consolingly. 

“Yes,” answered the duchess, doubtfully; 
“James Padelford has had one stroke before 
179 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


this, and Chidworth is one of the show 
places of England — far handsomer than 
Coomb, they tell me.” 

“Then, too, if the mine and the Denver 
Trolley Company should prove what Aber- 
nethy and Wemyss think, he would be con- 
sidered a good match by anybody,” said 
Lady Mary, proudly. 

The duchess eyed her daughter curiously. 

“That is quite true, and, besides that, we 
would get the credit of having let you marry 
him for love — which always counts. It may 
even, in the case of a court beauty like you, 
create a sensation. But it does distress 
me,” she added, with a sigh, “to hear my 
daughter so glib with commercial terms. 
It is that deadly American influence.” 

Lady Mary shuddered and hastened to 
switch the conversation back to the soften- 
ing scenes of the morning. As yet she was 
the only member of the family who knew 
that her brother. Lord Abernethy, the heir 
to the title, was also going to marry an 
American girl. 

Where would it all end? 

i8o 


Chapter XII 


E dith, by not appearing at the lunch- 
eon, was rested sufficiently to see the 
members of the household in the afternoon, 
and hear Sir John’s account of how things 
had gone. The Charterseas were staying 
at Mintern for a week. 

They all gathered in the great, sunny, south 
room, which was where the baby spent his 
afternoons, it being an idea of his mother’s 
that sunshine should play a large part in the 
upbuilding of his tiny strength. 

Inchworthy and the girls remained for a 
few moments only, leaving the Charterseas 
and Robert Gordon, the dowager, Tessie, 
and the Mayhews to discuss the morning’s 
great event. 

The dowager was in high feather, and, so 
far from meeting with any opposition from 
Edith and Archie, she was emboldened, by 

i8i 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


their apparent acceptance of the situation, 
into usurping more and more the preroga- 
tives of mistress of the house. It was she 
who greeted the others as they came in. It 
was she who took the baby from the nurse 
and held him up for inspection. It was she 
who answered all the questions, no matter 
to whom they were put. 

Sir John was nervous and distrait. He 
drummed with his long, thin fingers on the 
arms of his chair, a sure sign of mental dis- 
turbance. Lady Chartersea felt that the 
excitement of the morning had been bad for 
him, and said so. It was all Sir John needed 
to set him off. He turned on her fiercely. 

“Once for all, madam,” he said, with 
twitching eyebrows, “let us hear no more 
about excitement being bad for me. Haven’t 
I proved over and over again, in the last 
year, that each doctor I have tried was 
an unmitigated ass? Didn’t the doctor in 
Cairo tell me that I would die if I travelled 
when I did, and did even the chasing of 
Edith the length of the Mediterranean, with a 
field-glass in meh hand the entire way, finish 
182 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


me? Didn’t Dr. Paisley, at Cawdor, tell me 
that the excitement of the household was 
killing me ? Well , did it ? Am I a dead man ? 
Look at me, and tell me that! Am I a dead 
man yet?” 

“Why, no. Sir John,” said Lady Charter- 
sea, pacifically. “Pray, don’t excite your- 
self. Certainly you are not a dead man. 
Whatever can have put such an idea into 
your head?” 

“I tell you, madam, excitement is good 
for me. I thrive on it. I never felt better 
in meh life.” 

He mechanically took a long envelope 
from his pocket and looked vindictively at 
his wife, then put it back again, as if the 
time was not yet ripe. 

“Edith,” said Robert Gordon, “you 
grow handsomer every day. Lady Mary 
ought to hate you, but she doesn’t. Sir 
John, doesn’t she look stunning in that 
white velvet tea-gown, with just that heavy 
gold cord and tassel around her waist ? 
Archie, you must have Sargent paint her in 
that.” 


183 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 

“Wait till my hair grows a little longer,” 
said Edith, with a smile. 

“ Dear, I think your hair is more beautiful 
now than it ever was,” said her husband. 

‘ ‘ It reminds me of that Psyche on porcelain 
which hangs in the blue drawing-room, now 
that it is just long enough to draw into that 
bunch of loose curls at the back of your 
head. Your profile is most artistic. Isn’t it. 
Sir John?” 

“Edith knows what I think of her,” said 
Sir John, gruffly. “If she doesn’t, she is 
deaf and blind and stupid into the bargain.” 

The dowager was holding the baby, and 
Edith had that anxious expression in her 
eyes which you sometimes see in the eyes of 
a dumb animal when strange hands are 
fondling her young. 

She finally seated herself in a high-backed 
chair of carved rosewood and said, gently: 

“I will take the baby now, if you please. 
Lady Mayhew.” 

“No, Edith, my dear, you are not strong 
enough to hold him, and it’s better for the 
little chap to sleep now, anyway. I’ll just 
184 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


lay him in his cradle,” said the dowager, 
fussily. 

“Nurse,” said Archie, without turning his 
head, “give the baby to Lady Mayhew, in- 
stantly.” 

The dowager blinked her eyes in astonish- 
ment, but submitted without a word, as be- 
came a dutiful Englishwoman. 

A timid knock on the door, just here, fol- 
lowed by a whispered parley, resulted in the 
nurse coming up to Edith and saying: 

“Your ladyship, the head - gardener’s 
daughter is without, a most respectable 
young married woman, with her little baby. 
She begs to know if she might let him look 
for a moment at the young viscount. It 
would give her much pleasure, if your lady- 
ship would not count it an intrusion.” 

Edith’s eyes kindled. 

“We should all be glad to see her baby. 
Have her come in. They are both healthy 
— are they, nurse?” 

“Oh, your ladyship, trust me for knowing 
that before I dared ask to bring them in.” 

“Isn’t that dear of her, to bring her baby 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


to call on mine!” cried Edith, in delight, as 
the nurse left the room. She seemed more 
pleased by this girl’s attention than when 
his Royal Highness consented to stand god- 
father to her boy. 

The head-gardener’s daughter came in 
shyly, her black eyes snapping with excite- 
ment. She court esied several times while 
the nurse brought the baby to Edith’s chair. 
But when Edith with her own hand put back 
the veil from the little stranger’s face, his 
mother forgot her fear of the gentry and 
crept insensibly nearer and nearer until she 
stood at Edith’s elbow. 

“Oh, what a fine, big baby!” said Edith. 
‘ ‘ And how very strong he is. See him strike 
out. The little dear!” 

She touched his velvet cheek with her 
finger and the baby grasped it in his sturdy, 
little fist and conveyed it to his mouth with 
every sign of satisfaction. 

“Oh, oh!” said Edith, with a low laugh, 
which seldom sounded now. “See how he 
tugs at my finger! I can hardly drag it 
away.” 


i86 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


She lifted his long skirts as he kicked at 
them and released two strong legs, where 
the fat lay in creases. Dimples were in his 
knees, both socks were kicked off, and, in the 
utmost relief at the use of his legs, he cooed 
and crowed, with his rosy mouth gathered 
into a scarlet button of happiness. 

“Why, did you ever see such a darling?” 
cried Edith. 

The young mother colored with delight. 

“If you please, your ladyship,” she stam- 
mered, “may we beg the honor of naming 
him after the little viscount ? His father and 
me both wishes to call him Geoffrey, if you 
don’t think we are too bold.” 

Before Edith could answer. Sir John and 
Robert Gordon and Mayhew had all gone 
down in their pockets and fished out gold 
sovereigns. 

“Why, I think it would be very nice,” 
said Edith, looking around. “But haven’t 
you waited a long time to christen him ? He 
is such a big boy.” 

She looked down at the motionless bundle 
in her lap as she spoke. 

187 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Oh no, your ladyship,” said the girl. 
“He is only four weeks old to-day. I — ” 

She stopped, frozen by the sudden change 
in young Lady Mayhew’s face. She pushed 
the baby away almost rudely and gathered 
her own up in her arms with sudden jealousy, 
pressing her cheek to the tiny face of her 
little son, who was not half the size of this 
peasant child. 

“Her ladyship is tired,” said the nurse. 
“You’d better be going.” 

The young woman reached for her baby 
and started nervously. The three men 
pressed the gold into her hand as she 
passed them, and she courtesied, too much 
frightened to speak. 

Edith saw the girl’s hand tremble, and her 
heart smote her. 

“Stop a moment,” she said, and the girl 
turned around, her eyes humbly begging par- 
don for she knew not what. 

“Let nurse give you the pillow and blank- 
ets from my boy’s cradle for your boy to 
sleep on, and may they bring your little 
Geoffrey luck,” said Edith, gently. 

i88 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Oh, my lady!” cried the girl, with her 
sudden blush. 

She gathered the soft blankets and lace- 
trimmed pillow with their embroidered coro- 
nets into her arms. 

“May God be good to you and yours for- 
ever!” she said, with trembling lips. 

“Amen!” said Sir John, solemnly. 

Edith’s face was hidden in her baby s 
filmy robe, as she tried in vain to keep her 
tears from being observed, but the dow- 
ager’s eyes were sharp. 

“There, there, Edith,” she said. “Exer- 
cise a little more control over yourself. It’s 
not so terrible to see a great, fat baby like 
that, that you need cry about it.” 

The cruelty of drawing attention to her 
grief was all that was needed to dry Edith’s 
tears instantly. She laid the baby on her 
knee again and straightened herself in her 
chair. 

“That’s right,” commented Lady Char- 
tersea. ‘ ‘ Y our plain speaking always brings 
about decided results, Marcia. I only wish 
I had your firmness in dealing with Sir John. 

189 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Firmness with the sick is very beneficial, 
but I have none of it. I can only advise 
others how to act.” 

This speech seemed to touch off the in- 
flammable Sir John, as if his wife had fired 
a powder-magazine. 

“Plain speaking!” snorted Sir John. 
“Gad! a little more of it and we’d all be 
dead and buried.” 

“Oh no. Sir John,” remonstrated his wife. 
“Don’t excite yourself, I beg. Surely you 
are an advocate of honesty at all times.” 

“Indeed, and I’m not, then,” cried Sir 
John. “In a sick-room, or to keep a wom- 
an’s mind tranquil, I’d be the damnedest liar 
that ever trod the earth, and glory in meh 
crime, madam. That’s what I advocate. 
Tact and consideration, if you choose to 
cover ’em up with words, but good, honest 
lies / call ’em, and deal in ’em, too, when 
necessary.” 

“I can’t say I agree with you,” said his 
wife, with the quiet stubbornness which in- 
variably enraged Sir John. “I have always 
advised plain speaking, have I not, Marcia?” 

190 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Indeed you have, my dear Jane,” said 
the dowager. 

Sir John looked from the dowager to his 
wife, as if he could not decide which one it 
would give him the most satisfaction to rap 
over the nose. The discreet nurse, at a look 
from Edith, left the room. 

“I should be sorry to think, madam,” he 
said, addressing his wife with a sarcasm 
which hurtled harmlessly over her compre- 
hension, “that you advocated the plain 
speaking at Cawdor which came so near 
plunging us all in deepest grief.” 

If Lady Chartersea had only possessed a 
little sense, but — 

“Indeed, Sir John,” she said, placidly, “I 
did just that. I agreed perfectly with Lady 
Mayhew that it was most reprehensible of 
you all to conceal from Edith the — ” 

Lady Chartersea never got to the end of 
her sentence. She seemed to awaken to 
her sense of danger by the blue flashes of 
lightning which flamed from Sir John’s 
eyes. 

“What!” he shouted, half springing from 
191 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


his chair. “You dare to tell me that you, 
you advised that inhuman cruelty!” 

He stopped a moment, paralyzed by the 
torrent of his anger. 

“There, Robert, let go meh arm. I am 
calm!” Sir John choked to prove it. 

He fumbled for his glasses and drew from 
his pocket the long envelope, nodding his 
head in grim but agitated satisfaction. 
Archie stood by his wife’s chair with his 
hand on her shoulder. 

“Here, madam,” said Sir John, peering 
at his wife through his glasses, “is my will — 
the last one I shall ever draw. I made it 
at Cawdor, and destroyed the other in the 
presence of witnesses.” 

Lady Chartersea’s body stiffened in her 
chair as if galvanized. Her face became a 
yellowish white. 

“These,” said Sir John, “are stocks, se- 
curities, and shares in Abernethy’s American 
mine, which are my christening present to 
Edith’s boy. I have turned them over 
legally to Archie to hold in trust for the 
boy.” 


192 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


Lady Chartersea put out her hand im- 
ploringly. 

“Oh, Sir John!” she moaned. 

“These mining shares yielded, for the first 
half-year, sixty-two per cent, dividend,” said 
Sir John, with unctuous slowness. 

“Sixty-two per cent.!” repeated his wife, 
with sudden energy. “Sir John, you must 
be mad to give such values away! Pray! 
Pray, stop to consider sister and me!” 

“All of which,” proceeded Sir John, “are 
already in the possession of Viscount Rox- 
bridge.” 

He drew out his handkerchief and flour- 
ished it. 

“Then, with the exception of your legal 
portion, madam — ” 

“My legal portion!” cried Lady Charter- 
sea. 

“That is what I said, madam, your legal 
portion — ” 

“But that is a mere pittance, compared 
with all your wealth. Sir John. Surely, you 
mean to leave me your personal property 
besides?” 


13 


193 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


“Your legal portion only, under the laws 
of Great Britain, is all that I have left to 
you,” said Sir John, with a silent chuckle of 
deep content. “That and a few legacies to 
old servants — ” 

“And sister?” cried his wife, anxiously. 

“Not a penny to ‘sister’! Robert gets 
the only large legacy.” 

Lady Chartersea burst into tears, but Sir 
John continued without a pause: 

“And small legacies to each of Tessie’s 
babies whom she named after Edith — ” 

Lady Chartersea snatched away her hand- 
kerchief to glare at Tessie, who only colored 
under the silent attack. 

“With these exceptions all my property 
goes to Edith Cavendish’s boy — every far- 
thing of it, and a small return it is to him 
for all that lies behind him and all that lies 
before him and his blessed mother. Edith, 
meh girl, God bless you!” 

Sir John buried his face in his handker- 
chief and blew his nose tempestuously. 

“Not one of my girls remembered!” said 
the dowager. 


194 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“Not one,” repeated Sir John, cheerfully. 

“A most infamous will,” cried Lady Char- 
tersea. 

“A most shocking exhibition of revenge,” 
added the dowager. But, to her astonish- 
ment, Lady Chartersea turned on her. 

“And, most of all, I owe it to you. Lady 
Mayhew,” she said, “for, if I had not aided 
and abetted you in your hatred of your 
American daughter-in-law, I would have 
been residuary legatee myself.” 

“Quite true, madam,” said Sir John, 
smiling and rubbing his hands. “In the 
will I destroyed at Cawdor, you were resid- 
uary legatee.” 

“Oh, infamous!” cried Lady Chartersea. 
“Infamous, I say!” 

“ If you are referring to your conduct from 
Cairo to this hour, madam, I can agree with 
you without reserve,” said Sir John, whose 
good humor increased every moment. 

“You have lost me thousands of pounds,” 
cried Lady Chartersea to the dowager, wax- 
ing more and more furious. 

“Say hundreds of thousands, meh dear,” 
IQS 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


said Sir John, enjoying himself hugely. ‘ ‘ And 
increasing every year.” 

“I shall never,” exclaimed Lady Charter- 
sea, rising to her feet and trembling with 
anger, ‘‘forgive you. Lady Mayhew, nor see 
you again as long as I live.” 

‘‘Quite a proper spirit, madam, upon meh 
word,” cried her husband. 

‘‘And I leave this house to-night,” con- 
tinued Lady Chartersea, “never to return 
to it.” 

“Can we bear it?” cried Sir John, wicked- 
ly, looking in alarm at Edith and Archie. 
Edith shook her head at him, but warnings 
were in vain. Sir John was off, and there 
was no stopping him. 

“I shall have your man pack your things 
at once. Sir John,” said Lady Chartersea, 
going towards the door. 

“Spare him the trouble, meh dear, for he’d 
only be obliged to unpack them again in an 
hour. I’m going to stop here for a week,” 
cried Sir John. “But don’t let me detain 
you. Robert, you will see your sister safely 
back to Arlesworth, won’t you?” 

196 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


“With pleasure,” said Robert Gordon. 

“You cannot detain me,” said Lady Char- 
tersea, who, having once made up her mind 
that Sir John was so devoted to her that 
a separation between them was impossible, 
would die clinging to that belief, “because 
I am going to escape from the perfidious 
company of the Dowager Countess of May- 
hew.” 

“You will be obliged to go, then,” said 
the dowager, stung by the sarcasm into 
premature boasting, “for I am stopping at 
Mintern indefinitely.” 

And, indeed, she believed it. 

“Not so fast, mother, if you please,” said 
Archie, quietly, still with his hand on his 
wife’s shoulder. “You and the girls are to 
leave for Dower House to-morrow by the 
morning train. I have given orders to that 
effect, and wired for your servants to expect 
you.” 

Lady Chartersea paused at the door and 
burst into a cackle of mirthless laughter at 
the dowager’s face, and, indeed, her ex- 
pression of dismay was irresistible. She 
197 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


gave one look into her son’s steel-blue eyes 
and then turned supplicatingly to Edith. 

“Edith, child,’’ she said, brokenly, “make 
him unsay those words. You don’t know 
what Dower House is — so far away. I 
could never see you nor help you with the 
baby. Don’t let him exile me. It is worse 
than exile. We shall be marooned, I and 
the girls! You want me to stay, don’t you, 
Edith?’’ 

“Indeed, Lady Mayhew,’’ said Edith, in a 
low voice, but trembling visibly, “I do not 
want you to stay! I should die if you were 
to live here. For when I saw that dimpled, 
happy baby just now, with only deep creases 
for wrists and ankles, and realized that but 
for you I should see my boy the same — when 
I heard that baby coo and crow with happi- 
ness and health, and then realized that I 
have never, in all the four months of his 
little life, heard my baby’s voice except 
raised in a feeble wail of pain — may God 
forgive me. Lady Mayhew, but I thought I 
never wanted to see your face again.’’ 

The dowager stared at Edith with dropped 
198 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


jaw. Her unemployed eye was rolling wild- 
ly. Then, without a word, but followed by 
the cracked laughter of Lady Chartersea, 
the dowager turned and left the room by an- 
other door. She reached up feebly and took 
a valuable painting on ivory from the wall 
as she passed. She had always admired it. 

At this moment Cephyse and the nurse 
entered the room. The nurse took the sleep- 
ing baby, and Edith leaned back in her chair 
white and trembling. While the others were 
hastily going. Sir John came over to Edith, 
and, flinging the securities into her lap, he 
whispered : 

“Has it been too much for you, Edith? 
What a selfish brute I was to take my re- 
venge on her before you!” 

“No, Sir John. I was wicked enough to 
enjoy it. There is no danger, you see, of my 
dying. I am too bad.” 

“Gad!” chuckled Sir John, “I haven’t en- 
joyed mehself so much in years. Talk about 
the theatre, Archie. What play could touch 
it when those two old women fell on each 
other? Now, I’m going, Edith. Not a word 
199 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


more from you until to-morrow. I kiss your 
hand, meh dear.” 

Cephyse bore her mistress into her apart- 
ments and knelt in front of her and unlaced 
the white velvet boots, which would have 
been clumsy on any but fairy feet, and 
soothed her mistress with cooing words, as 
one would talk to a sick child. Then she put 
her to bed, but, in flitting silently around the 
room, she noticed that Lady Mayhew’s eyes 
were wide open, and held the same expres- 
sion in their depths which had terrifled them 
all at Cawdor. So, then, Cephyse, whose 
adoration for her mistress was something to 
wonder at, came and sat down by the bed 
and held Lady Mayhew’s hands in both her 
own and threaded her hair with her mag- 
netic fingers. Then, feeling the tension in 
Lady Mayhew’s frail body relax, Cephyse 
began to sing in a low voice a little French 
berceuse which Edith loved, and gradually 
her eyelids drooped and she slept. 

Fatigue caused her to sleep straight 
through the night, so that she never knew of 
the dowager’s pilferings that evening, nor of 


200 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


the trinkets and small oh jets d'art which left 
Mintern securely concealed in the dowager’s 
boxes, which, however, were returned to her 
the next week by the girls, with the line: 
“Mother hooked these from Mintem, but we 
return them while she is out with the curate 
to lecture poachers. We thought you might 
like to have the gold toilet - set yourself. 
Love and love and love!” 

Edith was awakened after her long sleep 
by whispering at the door of her room. It 
was Cephyse refusing to let the girls in to 
say good-bye. 

“Let them come, Cephyse,” she said, and 
instantly they broke past the maid and 
flung themselves upon Edith, with tears and 
kisses. 

“You shall come back,” she promised 
them, “and we will take you abroad for 
your holidays, and not Tessie but I will pre- 
sent you at court — if I ever get strong 
again.” 

“Oh, you dear! You dear!” they wailed. 

The dowager’s sharp voice called them, 
and, after a last tempestuous round of em- 


201 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


braces, they tore themselves away, and pres- 
ently the carriage doors slammed below, the 
gravel crunched under the horses’ feet, and 
they were off. 

Cephyse was watching from behind the 
curtains, unaware that her mistress could 
see her. When the carriage passed from 
view, she lifted her skirts and gave a most 
expressive little kick in the direction of the 
dowager’s unconscious back. 

“Va done!” she hissed, under her breath. 


Chapter XIII 


Y oung Lady Mayhew’s American spirit 
prevailed, and little Roxbridge throve. 
Edith’s life was no longer her own, but was 
spent in flitting from English baths to the 
south of France, thence to the lakes of Italy, 
and once, when Abemethy’s pleadings con- 
vinced her, she actually took him to a ranch 
in Wyoming, where his strength grew rapidly. 

His young aunts adored him and spent 
half their time with the May hews, but the 
dowager never again was asked either to 
Mintem or Arlesworth. 

From the hour, however, of Edith’s re- 
buff, the dowager’s respect for her increased, 
until she bored her friends to extinction by 
her tiresome praises of her American daugh- 
ter-in-law. Such spirit! Such firmness! 
Such admirable devotion to Roxbridge, who 
was growing into such a fine lad! 

203 


THE DOWAGER COUNTESS 


Not all Edith’s gentleness and forbear- 
ance had availed her like that one spirited 
outburst which forever put her mother-in- 
law out of her life. 

It has often been observed, as a curious 
freak of nature, that at a boys’ school when 
the reigning bully has been soundly thrashed 
by a stripling new-comer, the bully, instead 
of planning revenge, becomes the proud sat- 
ellite and faithful fag of the stripling new- 
comer. 

So Edith’s youth became womanhood, 
and other boys and girls came to bear young 
Roxbridge company and to be his brothers 
and sisters, but none was like the first-born, 
either to others or to his mother. 

Between these two was an invisible chain 
of understanding, born of their fight together 
for life and the liberty to wax strong. It 
could be seen in their actions towards each 
other, in their subtle comprehension of each 
other’s moods, and the thoughts which in 
each human soul lie too deep for words. 
And often the boy’s father would be struck 
by the way in which the lad, in obedience to 
204 


AND THE AMERICAN GIRL 


an unspoken wish from his mother, would 
leave his play and come and lean upon her 
knee and gaze into her eyes without speak- 
ing, but with an understanding look, as if 
there existed between them a mysterious 
bond, which was only understood by those 
two and God. 


THE END 



By LILIAN BELL 


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